


Sinfonia

by foggys



Series: La orquesta [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, F/M, M/M, Multi, Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony, excuse me for my lack of orchestral knowledge, i have two years of school orchestra to guide me, per aspera ad astra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggys/pseuds/foggys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is the concertmaster and Grantaire the unwilling bass player. Courfeyrac and Bahorel are crazy, Gavroche needs help with music theory, and who made their crappy music folders anyway?</p><p>Or, the one where they're all first chairs in college orchestra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a really long time, but this was written in a day and a half and also unbeta-ed. It's been a while since I've written in past tense. All mistakes are mine. Sorry!

The poster caught Grantaire’s eye on the way to his new favorite bar on campus. It was tacked to a crowded bulletin board, glossy paper neatly tucked among pieces of colored paper with ridiculous slogans and flapping columns of names and phone numbers on the bottom. It had color, another difference from its neighbors, and its cursive font curled across the page. _Interested in playing classical music with a diverse group of musicians?_ it read. _Join Lamarque University Symphony Orchestra! Conductor: Professor Jean Valjean._ On the bottom information about rehearsals and auditions was listed. There was a picture of an orchestra, and next to it, one of a musician drawing a bow across a gigantic instrument.

Grantaire looked closer, blinking to make sure he wasn’t mistaken.

It was a bass.

He chuckled, drumming his fingers on the brown instrument. A dark eyebrow quirked, and he vowed to drink to whoever had made this poster for the inclusion of his instrument instead of the stereotypical violin, or flute, or horn, or pretty much anything except the bass.

Grantaire continued on his way to the bar, and promptly forgot about the poster (and his promise to drink to its maker).

 

Grantaire’s new roommate arrived four days later. Jehan had a wreath of purple flowers on his wavy blond hair and came skipping into the room with a flower-printed duffel bag, light blue eyes gleaming with excitement. He’d introduced himself to Grantaire (“Hi you must be my new roommate my name is Jean Prouvaire but I’d really rather you call me Jehan please thank you! what’s your name?”), complimented his eye color, and taken out his purple, embroidered-butterfly pillow before his parents came into the room. They set his turquoise and orange suitcases down, and Jehan hugged and kissed them good-bye while reciting a poem about farewell. Grantaire sat on his bed, drinking beer and absentmindedly sketching Jehan and his family in an embrace.

When the door finally closed, the shorter boy plopped down on his own bed, not seeming to mind the stuff Grantaire had tossed on it. He reached into his pocket and drew out a hand-woven bracelet with little coffee cup designs on it. He bounced off his bed and sat down next to Grantaire, wrapping it around the artist’s left wrist. When he noticed the scars, Jehan traced them with gentle fingers, hugged Grantaire, and told him that he was brave. Upon seeing the sketch, he declared that he was a brilliant artist and that he was going to write him a tanka and a sonnet.

Grantaire liked him.

 

Jehan had a friend, Courfeyrac, who was a junior and majoring in theater. (It was quite obvious.) He visited their dorm room the next afternoon, waving a stack of postcard-sized posters.

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac shouted and tackled the boy in a very long hug, eliciting an excited squeal from him. Grantaire, who usually didn’t care enough to notice these things, wondered if there was something between them. Jehan introduced him to Grantaire and enthusiastically informed him that Courfeyrac was from the Bay Area, too.

The green-eyed boy immediately plunked down on Jehan’s bed and practically shoved the posters in his face. Jehan smiled widely, and they talked. Grantaire drew manga versions of them, Jehan with adorable large puppy eyes and Courfeyrac with pretty-boy hair.

Courfeyrac and Jehan were about to leave when the theater major gasped melodramatically and spun around. “Grantaire! The bass – is that yours?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“Do you play classical or jazz?” The kid looked like he was about to start jumping in place.

“Classical.”

“Oh my God, why didn’t you say anything?” Courfeyrac bounded toward him and thrust a poster into his hand. It was a small version of the Lamarque University Symphony one he’d seen. “I play trumpet. First chair last year.” He puffed out his chest proudly.

Grantaire looked at the glossed card again. They rehearsed twice a week for two hours each, and he’d rather use that time to, well, to pursue his interests. (Drink.) Besides, he would have to practice, and the music building was fifteen minutes away, even when he wasn’t carrying his bass.

“We need basses! Like, really badly! I don’t think they even care how good you are – no offense, I’m sure you’re great. If you audition, you’ll probably get in. Ooh, did you ever play for a youth orchestra or something?” Courfeyrac is bouncing on the spot.

“Uh…yeah.”

“What orchestra?”

“San Francisco,” Grantaire mumbled quickly.

“San Francisco. San Francisco, like San Francisco Symphony Youth Orchestra?” He looked like he was trying very hard to control himself. “You played for SFSYO?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“OH MY GOD!!! SFSYO! That is amazing. You must be so good!” A wistful look passed over Courfeyrac’s face. “I wish I could’ve played there. I was only in YPSO.” Enthusiasm once again bounced back into his expression. “Oh my God, you have to play for us! You’re still going to have to audition, but they’re gonna let you in, I promise.”

“Um…thanks for the offer, but, really, no thanks.” Grantaire handed the poster back.

Courfeyrac looked shocked. “What? But…come on! You have to. Seriously. You’ll get all the first parts you want. Principal bass. Please? Jehan’s going to audition, too.”

His roommate nodded quickly.

“Sorry, dude. I played too much in high school. Thanks for the offer, though.” Trying to ignore the pouty face Jehan was making and the genuinely dejected look in Courfeyrac’s eye, Grantaire leaned back and drank from his bottle. He hoped the other guy got that the conversation was over.

He looked torn between pestering him more and respecting what he said, but heaved a great sigh. “Your choice, dude. We’d really appreciate it if you just auditioned. At least keep the card.” He placed the poster on his bedside table. “Okay, Jehan and I are gonna go now. Really, consider it, please.”

They left, and the door shut. Grantaire glanced at the black fabric case in the corner and shook his head. He had only brought it to college with him because he didn’t want his mother to take it and pawn it. No, he wasn’t going to play again, and that was that.

 

He really should have known that that would not be the last time Courfeyrac tried to convince him to join.

The dude came around twice more, each time wheedling for Grantaire to audition. If he absolutely couldn’t, he could at least meet with the conductor, who was assistant principal horn at Baltimore, or with the concertmaster and the principal cellist, who were in Boston Youth when they were in high school. Each time Grantaire was able to resist the faces he and Jehan made at him.

Then two days before the first day of the semester, Grantaire attended one of the freshmen orientations after much persuading from Jehan, who went with him but suspiciously disappeared after the second break.

Grantaire left orientation, disconcerted by how many bubbly freshmen were around him. When he arrived back to his dorm, he found Jehan and Courfeyrac frolicking around, swatting each other with Jehan’s vividly colored pillows. He was about to say that they’d better not have touched any of his things when Jehan saw him and elbowed Courfeyrac. They stopped, pillows tossed to the side.

“Hi Grantaire!” Jehan chirped. Courfeyrac nudged him, and his face turned serious. “Okay, so we decided that –”

“Oh, God, is this about that symphony again? I told you, I don’t want to do it. I’ve played enough for San Francisco in the last four years.” He rolled his eyes.

“Four years! You were in it for four – never mind.” Courfeyrac sighed. “Jehan, continue.”

“So, well, the symphony really, really needs a good bass. They had two last year, but one graduated and apparently the other one’s really bad. But anyway, you have your bass here with you, we don’t have to ship it from home or get you another one, and you are the best on campus right now. Obviously we were unable to persuade you to go by your own free will, so we’re going to have to use force. We’re sorry.” Jehan did look somewhat apologetic. “But it’s only an audition."

Grantaire waited for them to start dragging him out the door or something. But Jehan and Courfeyrac stood there, blinking at him.

It was kind of disturbing, actually.

“Wait, what’s your plan anyway? Standing there and doing nothing…?” Grantaire moved around them to his bed. “O-kay.”

“No, it’s more than that,” Courfeyrac said.

“What?” Grantaire leaned back on his (regular, non-Jehan-ed) pillows. He slid open his bedside table drawer - his full alcohol stash, of course - for the first of twelve beers he got yesterday…and the drawer was empty.

Ugh.

“What the fuck did you do to it?”

“We’re sorry!” cried Jehan. “Pleeeeeease audition?”

“We have it. I promise we didn’t pour it down the drain or anything. Just audition, and I swear we’ll give it back.” Courfeyrac looked like he was trying to be convincing, but was infinitely more worried for the distressed Jehan.

Well, if they cared so much about it, about his apparent greatness in their apparently great orchestra, they went so far as to take away his alcohol…

“Fine,” he said.

Jehan clapped. “Yay! Come on, Courf, we have to tell them! Thank you so much, Grantaire!” The blond boy led him out the door.

“You guys had better not make me regret this,” he mumbled under his breath, eyes on the case in the corner.

 

From: Professor Jean Valjean (jvaljean@lamarque.edu)

To: r (17agrantaire@lamarque.edu)

Date: August 26, 2013

Subject: LUSO Auditions Information

Dear applicant,

Thank you for applying to audition for Lamarque University Symphony Orchestra! The days of the audition will be August 30 and 31, this Friday and Saturday, from 1-6 each day. Please reply to this email indicating two 15-minute timeslots. We look forward to hearing you!

Professor Jean Valjean, DMA  
Head of LU Music Department  
Director of LUSO

 

“3:15-3:30 and 5:30-5:45. You’re okay with that, right?”

“What are you doing, Jehan.”

“Making sure your audition time is between mine and Courf’s.”

“What, so I won’t run away?”

“Yeah.”

“Please, who’s going to run with a bass on their back? It’s, like, twenty pounds and the size of a large pony.”

“...True.”

“You woodwind, you.”

 

Grantaire was sketching out ideas for his first big art project when Jehan squealed in delight. He jumped, pencil skittering across the page.

“Grantaire! Grantaire! I got in!” The boy hopped around the room, his laptop abandoned on his bed. Grantaire couldn’t help but smile, until Jehan attacked him.

“Oh my gosh, then you should know, too! Check your email right now!” He retrieved his laptop and eagerly set it down in front of the artist.

Grantaire logged on. He had an email from Valjean. He opened it, scanning it quickly and barely paying attention to Jehan’s cheers from beside him.

“You made it! Oh my gosh, congratulations!” Jehan tugged him up and hugged him tightly.

Courfeyrac burst through the door, face shining with the same thrill, and the blond boy abandoned Grantaire to rush at the newcomer.

A bassist.

In an orchestra.

Again.

Dammit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the first day of rehearsals for Lamarque University Symphony. The conductor is not there, Marius is…Marius, and Grantaire and Enjolras meet each other.

Marius was nervous.

(Okay, fine, when was he not?)

It was ten minutes before he was due in rehearsal, and Marius just arrived at the music building. Being himself, of course, he had forgotten which room it was, and stood for five minutes outside the building, turning around helplessly.

Help did come, in the form of two laughing guys. They were both holding cases, and Marius recognized them from the audition. He hurried up to them.

“Excuse me,” he said to the taller guy with the dark curls.

A grin split his face, and he glanced sideways at his companion. “Hello. First time to rehearsal? Jehan’s new, too.”

The guy called Jehan waved.

“Yeah. The thing is – the thing is, I don’t know –”

"How to get onto the platform?" Jehan supplied, giggling.

"Not to worry," continued the curly-haired guy. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten."

Both of them stared at Marius, tilting their heads like they expected him to continue.

Marius blinked.

" _Harry Potter 1_? No?" Jehan said, his eyebrows furrowing.

Marius shook his head. "I've never read them or seen them. My grandfather said they were anti-Christian."

"Oh no." The wavy-haired one pouted.

"Not to worry, I will force the gems of literature upon you soon enough," the curly-haired one declared. "Call me Courfeyrac." He shifted his – trumpet? – case to his other hand and shook Marius’s.

“My name is Marius Pontmercy. Nice to meet you. But, um, it’s like 2:27 and we’re supposed to be up there, and I don’t know where it is.” Marius shifted uncomfortably.

“Shit. Is it actually 2:27?” Courfeyrac looked alarmed. “We’d better go, or Enjolras will have our hides.” He started speed-walking, and Jehan and Marius followed on his heels.

“Enjolras? I thought the conductor’s name is Valjean,” said Marius, half panting as they rushed through the doors and through the foyer.

Courfeyrac led them down a hallway and up a flight of carpeted stairs. “Oh, no, Enjolras is our concertmaster. You know, principal violinist and all. I swear, he cares more about everyone in the orchestra than Valjean, and Valjean’s already, like, our surrogate dad. Oh, here we are.”

They stopped outside a closed door. Marius and Jehan took deep breaths, but Courfeyrac looked entirely unaffected. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “So, Marius, are you excited?”

He nodded anxiously. “I guess, yeah.”

“Awesome. Come on, let’s go in.” Courfeyrac flung the door open dramatically and held it for Jehan and Marius to walk through.

They stepped into a pretty big room. Black plastic chairs arced in semicircles around the conductor’s podium, and there were banged-up music stands in front of them. Large black cases were strewn carelessly along the walls: low strings on one side, low winds on the other. People who played smaller, more mobile instruments crowded together with them in hand, chattering excitedly. Some people were playing, and some guys seemed to be testing the timpani and snare drums by hitting them very loudly. It was cacophonous, chaotic, and exactly like Marius’s high school orchestras.

He sighed in relief.

Courfeyrac led Jehan and him to a few row of chairs toward the back. "Jehan, you'll probably be here, and Marius, you here." He gestured to the first and second rows of the winds section. “So we set up and tune, warm up, whatever, and we just wait for Professor Valjean to come in,” he explained, unzipping his case and revealing his purple trumpet.

Marius had only seen people play those in jazz bands. If someone had shown up to his high school orchestra with that, his conductor would have screeched and launched it through a window. _  
_

So maybe things weren't exactly like high school. Was that a _bad_ thing? Marius wondered, staring at the stream of people passing by him.

Courfeyrac and Jehan started snapping their instruments together, and when Jehan touched his elbow, he jumped. He sat down and started assembling his clarinet, shrinking back against people as they passed his chair. He was about to attach the bell when Jehan tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Marius, Courf’s gonna introduce me to a bunch of his friends. Want us to wait for you?”

Marius shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. Thanks though. Do you know how long it’ll be until the conductor comes in?”

Jehan shrugged. “Courf said it’ll be pretty soon. ‘Kay, see you then.”

Marius was just wetting his reed when _she_ arrived.

Focusing on the case in his lap with his gaze directed toward the ground, the first thing he saw was her purple skinny jeans and those sandals with a high heel – what were they called, wedgie sandals or something – and he automatically leaned back to let her pass.

But she didn’t find another spot; instead she sat down in the chair next to him. After a moment, he heard, "Hey! I'm Cosette," and looked up.

She had blonde hair in waves that flowed perfectly past her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her eyes were large, in the purest, most beautiful shade of blue. Her cheekbones were prominent, and she had a slight smile on those perfectly red, perfectly-shaped lips. Her skin was porcelain.

And her hand was extended, waiting to shake his.

He pulled the reed out of his mouth and gulped. “M-Marius Pontm-mercy,” he stammered, taking her hand. Wait, he didn’t remember how you shake someone’s hand in normal society. Did you grip the hand tightly? How many times did you shake?

He ended up barely grabbing and shook twice, dropping his hand and his eyes immediately after. He was sure that his face was redder than the flowers that guy Jehan had in his hair.

Fortunately, Cosette (what a beautiful name) seemed unfazed by random guys falling over her left and right as she introduced herself. (How could she not be used to it? She was the most perfect person that he’d ever seen in his life.)

With a jolt, he realized she was talking. “–clarinet?”

He nodded quickly. (How did regular people nod?)

“Cool! Woodwinds!" She smiled, and Marius felt his heart skip a beat. "Awesome to meet you."

She clicked open her oboe case but was distracted by the girl on her other side. Marius nodded dumbly at her back, slipping the reed back into his mouth.

He was so _completely_   head over heels for her.

 

 

Grantaire found a space between the instrument storage shelves at the back of the room. He took out his instrument and began tuning. Well, a pretense of tuning, anyway. He could see most of the room from his space, and he carefully observed his fellow musicians. (He also had a flask in his hand. That helped.)

There was a very tall, lanky guy with sandy hair and oval glasses. He held a cello by the neck, propping it up vertically against the floor. He stood near the first cello chair. This was probably the principal cellist Courfeyrac had asked him to meet. At least he didn't seem arrogant.

The cellist was talking to a girl with either a violin or a viola case in her hand. She was tall and rather curvy. Thick, curly tresses hang loose and brushed her waist. Long, dark lashes framed her hazel eyes. She was stunning.

Across the room, two guys – a bassoon and a French horn – were laughing together. The bassoon player was tall with floppy brown hair. He had pale skin, which contrasted greatly with the dark skin of the horn player. He was even taller. He had a shaved head, and in the two minutes Grantaire watched them, he managed to drop his mouthpiece twice even though it was already in his instrument, knock his horn into a chair, and knock his friend’s bassoon into a music stand.

Grantaire’s view of them was blocked by a sudden flooding of people who looked like his fellow freshmen; they talked loudly and nervously, looking around the room. Among them came two individuals who were distinctly different. One was kind of scrawny, with red hair peeking out from under his newsboy cap. He had drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket. The other was much burlier, hefting a huge trombone case easily. The two of them moved toward the percussion storage shelves and dragged out the timpani and snare drum. The bigger guy pulled the other’s drumsticks out and proceeded to bang out a rhythm on the snare. The red-haired guy rolled his eyes and folded his arms, but Grantaire could see his smile.

But the most interesting person in the room by far was the blond violinist. He traveled between the musicians, stopping at each person to shake hands and exchange a short conversation. He was not the tallest in the room but held himself high, back impossibly straight and pale neck stretched long. His curls were thick and golden, scattered over his forehead. His face was regal, masculine, almost sculpted: pale lashes surrounding ice blue eyes, a high, straight nose, a strong jawline. But there was a femininity, a grace to his face as well; he had full, pink lips and high cheekbones. There was something burning behind those eyes; he moved around the room with a purpose. He was radiant.

Grantaire traced the path the violinist with his eyes, mesmerized by the fluidity of his movement. And he watched as he came closer and closer to where he was, ignoring his quickening heartbeat.

Finally, the violinist walked toward Grantaire. He put out a long-fingered hand. “Hello. My name is Enjolras, and I'm the concertmaster this year. You are?”

He shook it, though his hands were sticky with rosin dust. “Grantaire, but you can call me R if you want, Apollo.”

“Excuse me, did you just call me ‘Apollo’?”

(His scowl didn’t mar his beauty.)

“Yep. Problem?” Grantaire took a drink from his flask, noticing the way the Greek god’s eyes trailed after it.

Enjolras swallowed, as if to force down his disapproval. “So, Grantaire, you are the new first chair bass, yes? How long have you been playing?”

He shrugged. “Eleven years or so.”

Apollo nodded. “Excellent. There's a very good bass part in the symphony we're playing this semester.”

Grantaire shrugged again. “Eh.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed for the second time. "What do you mean, 'eh'?"

"Well, it's not like I want to be here. I don't care about orchestra."

Enjolras's gaze turned steely. "Elaborate. Please."

“My parents and now my roommate and his friend are forcing me to be in orchestra. It’s not that I hate bass, but it’s not my thing. I don’t care about orchestra much."

Enjolras stared at him, face turned to stone. "Why are you here then? There are plenty of people who want to be here, and you're taking up their spots. Why waste your efforts?"

Grantaire sighed. Was he really being criticized by someone he just met? (Even if he was a glowing god.) “Look. This has never been my – my passion or anything. My father made me take lessons, and my teacher made me audition for orchestras, and my conductor made me play. It was never my choice. At least I haven't abandoned my instrument in college, okay?"

Apollo narrowed his eyes, then said frostily, "It's nice to meet you, Grantaire." He turned away.

Grantaire emptied half his flask in one gulp before actually starting to tune the bass.

So _that_ was the concertmaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kudos and comments! I did not expect so many.
> 
> Hopefully this chapter is as (apparently) good as the last. I’m feeling kind of blegh over it, especially the part in Grantaire's POV. I wrote it in the car while on an eight-hour road trip, which is also why this took so long.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback would be awesome. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly was about to ask when he looked at the title.
> 
> It was Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony.
> 
> Oh, God.

The conductor, Professor Valjean, walked into the room at 2:40, ten minutes after they were supposed to start. Joly didn’t notice him at first, occupied as he was with handing Bossuet two bottles of hand sanitizer and a package of hand wipes to make sure he cleaned the French horn spit properly from his hand. (He didn’t care what Bossuet told him about the spit valve; there _had_ to be at least a little spit when you stuck you hand into the horn.) But the sudden absence of noise from Bahorel on the snare drums made him glance back.

The percussion section was set up pretty close to the door, and Joly saw Valjean striding past Feuilly with a stuffed-full leather bag. He elbowed Bossuet lightly, causing him to drop the wipes, and they stopped talking.

Around the room, people were noticing the same thing. They stopped talking normally and started nudging each other and whispering. The nervous energy from the freshmen was in the air, almost tangible. Everyone was still standing and holding their instruments, but they were clutching theirs with white knuckles.

Valjean set down his bag beside the podium and stepped on top of it. “Sorry I’m so late, I was photocopying some of the music we’re playing today.”

He drew himself up to his full height, looking powerful but kind at the same time. His voice was deep and boomed out across the room. “Welcome to Lamarque University Symphony! I am your conductor, Professor Jean Valjean.

“All of you have made it, whatever position you are in your section. There is something in each and every one of you that is deeply, incredibly musical – and I know this. I heard each of you during the auditions, and all of you astound me.

“Now, you are all incredible players as soloists; hopefully you know that already. But here, you are playing as a group, a symphony. You are one, and you must play as one. You must follow the music and listen to the others around you. Just remember that you are creating something as a whole, not just by yourself. And this is what rehearsal is for. It’s so you can fine-tune your ability to collaborate with the musicians around you and unite with the music itself, until the art that you make is something that is complete and beautiful. We’re going to make true orchestral music, and, as Victor Hugo, who was a French author and poet, said, ‘Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.’”

Professor Valjean paused. Joly glanced around; some people seemed poised to start clapping. But he continued before they had the chance to.

“So that’s that. No more suffering through my terrible speeches until our semester performance. Probably.” The old man’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and several nervous people smiled back.

“As you probably know, if you do orchestra for both semesters, you’ll get one credit. Yes, I know it’s not much. I talked to the school board to give you a credit per semester, and they agreed to send someone in to listen to you guys during the concert and sometimes in rehearsal to judge if you guys deserve it. I think you’ll get it, but if you don’t, I hope you stay to play for spring semester anyway.

“This semester, we’re going to be playing one symphony. Yes, I know that in other orchestras we would be working on more, but we’re also needed for several plays and one big musical for the drama department. I didn’t want you all to get overwhelmed with too much music.”

Joly glanced at Enjolras, who looked exactly like he predicted: as if he were about to start arguing that there was never "too much music." Joly exchanged a fond look with Bossuet.

“Of course, they’re not going to need the entire orchestra for the plays or the musical. My plan right now is to assign groups of you to play for each play, and we’ll somehow fit all of you in for _Wicked_. But I suspect some of you will be singing in it already.” He specifically looked at Courfeyrac, who beamed proudly.

“So for our end-of-semester concert, we’re going to be sharing a concert with the acapella choirs. I hope none of you mind. Of course, if you’re in choir or planning to audition for the plays or musical, talk to me sometime. I know you’re majoring in theater, Courfeyrac, so I know you’ll have a part somewhere. If anyone else knows they’ll definitely have a part, too, please talk to me after class today.”

Valjean continued to talk about playing for the drama department, but Joly was starting to zone out. He relaxed into the half-listening mode he used for his medical history lectures and glanced around the room, trying to meet the eyes of each of his friends. Enjolras seemed enraptured by Valjean, so Joly didn’t bother staring at him. Éponine was not present, but she would be here. Musichetta wagged her fingers and winked back at him (in spite of himself, he flushed) and Combeferre smiled in calmly-excited way only he can do. Feuilly and Bahorel were already staring at him – okay, he was a little unsettled there – and they gave him a wave and a thumbs-up respectively. Bossuet was standing next to him, and Courfeyrac looked pretty busy poking and giggling with a flute-piccolo player.

Valjean stopped talking about _Wicked_ and _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ abruptly, like he just realized something. Joly tuned in quickly. “I haven’t shown you your seats yet. And here I was wondering why you’re all standing up.” He shook his head. “Never trust an old man’s memory.” He shuffled a few sheets on his music stand, grabbed his baton, and began to walk around the room. He tapped on the backs of the chairs, saying the musician’s name and chair position. Enjolras was concertmaster (surprise, surprise), Éponine burst into the room right before Valjean said her name (as usual), and the rest of his friends were principal players or first chairs in their section, like they were last year.

That was actually why they were friends in the first place. Last year, he had been an awkward, worried freshman who got first chair in bassoon, a position he’d never held back home. He and Bossuet had stumbled (Joly figuratively, Bossuet literally) into rehearsal for the first time. After fumbling through part of Dvorak’s New World Symphony, Joly, Bossuet, and the rest of the principals and first chairs had been gathered around Valjean, who told them to set an example, both musically and otherwise, to everyone in their sections, whether there were thirteen or two people in them. Then Joly had met Courfeyrac, who had insisted that, since they were all there and it was Saturday, they should all go to his favorite café to get to know each other better.

And then they all became friends.

Joly wondered if Courfeyrac was going to do that this year. It did make him feel very welcome, both to college and to the symphony, and Joly certainly wouldn’t mind having a few more orchestra friends.

Once they were settled down into their seats and had music stands in front of them, Valjean took a vote between starting the music for _Wicked_ , _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , which was the September play, or their own piece. (The conductor was being very mysterious about what it was, and didn’t even tell them whose work it was.) It was very close between the musical and the symphony, but in the end, their new symphony prevailed.

Professor Valjean dug through his bag and pulled out a huge folder. Joly couldn’t make out the words, but carefully watched Éponine’s face. (It was the most dramatic out of the four – she, Musichetta, Enjolras, and Combeferre – who sat somewhat close to the conductor. She also had the best eyesight.) She showed some appreciation, and then, to Joly’s surprise, turned around and raised an eyebrow at Bossuet, and then himself, two chairs down. He tilted his head and raised his own eyebrows in return, confused. Éponine smirked mischievously and turned her head back around.

Uh oh.

Valjean started passing out music to the first violinists. Enjolras and Combeferre jumped up to help him, Enjolras looking like an enthusiastic freshman. He did the rest of the strings while the cellist came around to the winds and percussion. He handed Joly’s his music and told him, in the half-sincere, half-teasing Combeferre-ish tone, “We’re playing the first movement today. Good luck with that.”

Joly was about to ask when he looked at the title.

It was Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony.

Wasn’t this the one that…?

Eyes widening, he all but tore through the first few pages of the first movement.

There it was.

And he was not good sight-reading at all.

Oh, God.

* * *

Contrary to the horror-stricken expressions on many of the wind players, Jehan was very happy with Symphony No. 5. He had played it before, and it quickly became one of his favorite symphonies. Most people preferred the Sixth, but Jehan loved the quavering mood (oh, no, Courf’s bad sense of humor was affecting him) in the first movement, the soaring elegance of the second, the nimble, quickness of the third, and the magnificence and majesty of the finale.

And since when was he most people, anyway?

Joyfully, he flipped open the music and picked the flute up off his lap. The third flutist was the one who doubled piccolo in this piece, so hopefully he could just play flute. He started fingering the first notes (which were quite far along in the music; forty-nine measures in) and grinned as his fingers relearned the eight bars.

People were playing around him, testing out the notes in half time uncertainly, softly. Jehan cracked his knuckles and lifted the flute to his lips. He played pianissimo and a little slower, muscle memory making it easier for his fingers and tongue to remember the notes and rhythm. He came to the beginning of section D and stopped, not bothering to fight the gigantic beam that spread across his face.

It felt good to play symphony music again, after a summer of etudes and sonatas.

Valjean clapped twice, drawing their attention back to him. He called for them to start right from the top, seeming not to notice the way the two first clarinets (both freshmen like Jehan) trembled. Two measures of four, and then they were off.

The first chair in the clarinet section was an extremely freckly boy with red-brown hair. He played a few measures pretty softly but accurately, squeaked once, turned completely red, cast a sidelong, embarrassed glance at someone in the oboe section, started playing again, and squeaked again. It was a terrible, never-ending cycle: squeaking made him embarrassed, being embarrassed made him look at the oboes, looking at the oboes seemed to make him play, and playing while embarrassed made him squeak. It was actually quite interesting to watch, had Jehan not felt so horrible for the guy. He knew the part pretty well, and it shouldn’t have been too hard to sight-read. But the clarinetist must have been really scared.

Valjean, to his credit, did not stop to make the clarinets play again. He kept conducting and called out, “We’re going to play until the allegro con anima, and we’ll stop there!”

The clarinets finished their solo as Valjean cut them off. “Alright, excellent job, clarinets. Don’t worry about making a mistake; you’re sight-reading, and it’s a solo. Good work, bassoons. Great job, strings. Don’t forget the fortes and decrescendos. DAAaaaa. START LOUDLY and end softly. LOUD then soft. Oh, and play the whole part tenuto. Strings, it says at the top, _pesante e tenuto sempre._ 'Heavy and held, always.' I want you to play that out. Okay, everyone, from the top, and stop at the same place. Ready? I'll give you two measures. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t resist that Victor Hugo quote. Or that “quavering” joke, which wasn’t even funny anyway. Because those aren't quavers in the first movement. They're ridiculously fast sixteenth notes. Thank you, Tchaikovsky.
> 
> Sorry this chapter isn't as long as the other two. I just have a lot planned for the first day (and night) of rehearsal, and I had to split it into three parts. The third part's coming pretty soon. Hopefully.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd really appreciate feedback. Talk to me here or on Tumblr: iam-brick-pentameter. I'm still trying to figure Tumblr out, so I might not reply quickly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, Enjolras did not feel bad for what he said. Absolutely not.

They ended up playing right through the first movement three times, but at a much slower tempo. Of course, Éponine’s second violin part wasn’t exactly hard to sight-read, but she could understand the flutes’, clarinets’, and bassoons’ pain. Fingering the notes and – was it called “tonguing”? – _might_ have been hard.

Afterward, she was packing up and dusting rosin off her jeans when Professor Valjean called all the principal players to him. She stuffed her chin rest into its bag and zipped up her case before slinging it onto her back and going toward him. The cluster of her friends around the conductor apparently didn’t notice her and didn’t open up their circle, but before she had to shove her way in between Feuilly and Bossuet, Combeferre stepped aside for her. She smiled at him gratefully.

“-called you here because you are the first chairs of your section. From now on, your section is your responsibility,” Valjean said. Éponine noticed the rapid paling of the new, really cute clarinet player. She tried catching his eye to placate him.

Valjean continued. “I’m not going to ask anything extreme of you, of course. It’s just going to be things like making sure all your section members have their music before I come in, making sure they all tune, getting their phone numbers so you can call them if they’re late, and little things like that. It’s only to save time. And should you fail to perform these duties,” – his eyes twinkled – “well, the punishment isn’t going to be too harsh. Sorry to disappoint you, Bahorel.”

The clarinet kid paled further. Éponine hadn’t even known it was possible.

“I’d also really like for you to have your own music every time and not be late.” He raised his eyebrows at Éponine in mock disapproval, and she made a face at him. “You have to set an example to your section, like – _this_ is how you’re supposed to be. Just normal things like that. Don’t worry about being a first player. It’s not going to be too hard – in this orchestra, anyway.  
“So I suppose I’ll have to set you free now. Remember, the next rehearsal is on Wednesday, from 4:30 to 6:30 in this room. The instrument storage cabinets are in the back. I will lock them when I leave. Have a wonderful evening.”

Professor Valjean smiled warmly at them before packing up the music on his stand. Courfeyrac grabbed Bahorel by the bicep. They bounded to the back of the room, which was now empty of everyone else. They put their heads together – well, it was more like Bahorel leaning way down – and whispered conspiratorially. When the dark-haired new bass kid went to lock away his instrument in the huge bass cupboard, they scooted away secretively.

It was pretty normal behavior, considering them.

“So, hey, Éponine. How was your summer?” Combeferre said, sliding his cello on his back.

“Eh. My dad’s in jail.” She shrugged.

“Oh. Well, I would be sorry, but…”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Then, Courfeyrac hopped up on a chair, with Bahorel following. The former’s trumpet swung from his hand, and Bahorel was raising his trombone to his lips. The trumpet player blasted out a G while Bahorel played an obnoxious slide. Half the room jumped.

“Attention!” Bahorel bellowed, and Joly and Cute Clarinet Kid jumped again, though everyone else stayed grounded.

“So! We all made it. We’re all firsts. Whoo!” cheered Courfeyrac. “I propose that we all celebrate.” He wiggled his dark eyebrows.

Enjolras somehow appeared beside Éponine, probably because Combeferre was still next to her. He made a sound of displeasure that was loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“Now, Enjolras, tsk tsk, behave yourself,” said Bahorel, wagging his finger. “You wanna set a bad example to the newbies?”

Enjolras scowled.

“Professor Valjean!” the burly guy called out. “Should Enjolras set a bad example to the newbies?”

The corners of the mild-mannered man’s eyes crinkled in laughter. “No, of course he shouldn’t. Wasn’t he listening to what I was just saying? No one in this room should be a bad example to anybody. Least of all you and Courfeyrac, Bahorel.”

“But we’re being awesome, perfect gentlemen,” Courfeyrac declared, “and all the newbies should learn from our incredibly amazing example. Because obviously, we’re the best players in this entire school.”

An outbreak of a disease seemed to have seized the room as Éponine, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Musichetta all started coughing behind their hands. (No, really, Joly looked alarmed.)

Bahorel ignored their sniggering. “Everyone who isn’t a frosh! You know the drill. Follow Courfeyrac outside! First years! First years over here!” He waved his arms, still holding his trombone. The slide narrowly missed the ceiling. Several people winced.

Sighing collectively, most of the room filed out into the hallway after the enthusiastic Courfeyrac, Éponine along with them. She peeked over her shoulder as she left. There were four freshmen first chairs gathered at Bahorel’s feet: Cute Clarinet Kid, a blonde girl who looked vaguely familiar, though Éponine couldn’t quite put her finger on it, a peculiar guy who had flowers in his fluffy blond hair, and a curly-haired, bored-looking dude.

Interesting, but pretty typical for a group of musicians. Except maybe Flower Boy.

Five minutes later, they were herded out of the room, Courfeyrac and Bahorel had a hasty, whispered conversation, and they began leading the group toward Café Musain. (During Bahorel’s private session with them, he found out that apparently the freshmen didn’t have fake IDs yet. Also, they were all carrying thousand-dollar – at least – instruments.)

Éponine decided to befriend (read: impress, seduce, whatever) Cute Clarinet Kid on the way. She walked slower as the group made their way across the plaza outside the music building, falling into step beside him as he trailed behind.

She tried impressing him first. (He did look sort of like a rich-boy, nerdish type.) “Hi, my name’s Éponine. I’m principal second violin, which doesn’t make much sense to me. The term contradicts itself; the word ‘principal’ says that one would be first, which would suggest playing first violin. But ‘second’ implies that one would play second violin, which is in conflict with the first word. It’s a paradox. Well, anyway, you played a nice clarinet soli today. It must’ve been pretty hard – wait, sorry, I never caught your name.”

(Okay, so maybe her attempts at impressing someone had never been successful.)

Cute Clarinet Kid looked startled and very intimidated. “Um, thanks?” he said somewhat bewilderedly. “M-my name is Marius Pontmercy.”

“So, Marius,” said Éponine, “you’re a freshman, huh. What’s your major?”

“Uh, law.”

“Pretty cool.” She nudged him.

“Um, yeah, I - I guess.”

She continued to try and make conversation with him, asking about where he was from, if he had a girlfriend at home, other instruments, and favorite symphonies. (Chicago, no, piano, Brahms’s First.) She never got more than a sentence from him, and it always contained an “um” or “uh.”

Either he was completely disinterested or gay. With Éponine's luck, it was probably both.

The group of instrumentalists entered the café. Courfeyrac waved to the baristas and guided everyone near the back, where they settled into three square tables. Éponine sat across from Marius with Courfeyrac and his freshman friend the Flower Boy at the same table. Bahorel dragged Feuilly up with him to get coffees and teas for everyone, with reluctance from the latter. (“I’m not your personal fucking assistant, Bahorel.” “And I don’t fucking care. Also, watch how you phrase things.”) Combeferre had a quick discussion with Enjolras. Courfeyrac got up to butt in halfway through. When they finished, he ushered Éponine from her seat and pushed in the blonde oboe and the bored-looking bass. Enjolras and Combeferre came over to talk to them.

Bahorel and Feuilly came back, passing out drinks. Éponine accepted hers and went to sit at their table. (Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were sitting together, and she thought they were adorable and didn’t want to interrupt.) Besides, she could see what was happening with Marius clearly.

Courfeyrac came to join her, resting his chin on his folded hands while staring obviously at Flower Boy. When Éponine asked him what his friend’s name was, Courfeyrac’s dreamy response of “Jean Prouvaire, but he likes to be called ‘Jehan’” was slightly worrying. But she was distracted when Marius and the blonde girl started looking at each other and blushing. He smiled at her adorably and she brushed her hair back behind her ears self-consciously. As they reached for their drinks, their hands brushed once, and they both reddened considerably.

Damn it. Why did this always happen to Éponine?

* * *

Enjolras really didn’t want to have to talk to Grantaire again. At least, not on the same day. His temper had already been short, for an orchestra day; he had been blocked by three people on the street who shoved flyers in his face and asked him to donate to their cause. They didn’t list on the flyer or tell him where the money would be going or even what projects they were planning to do. Upon asking, two of them replied with “We’re not sure right now” and the last said that they were going to do “community projects.” How could they help the community when they didn’t even know what they were going to do? And exactly how were they planning on convincing people to donate their money to that type of club?

So he’d expected to have a much better time in orchestra, greeting his friends and fellow musicians from his years there and meeting the new people. Then he’d met Grantaire, whose flippant attitude ticked him off. A lot.

(Not that Enjolras would ever admit this, except maybe to Combeferre, but Grantaire was also quite handsome.)

And now he had to talk to him again.

As Enjolras watched, Courfeyrac took the new oboist’s – Cosette’s – hand, bowed and kissed it, and led her to the table, steering Éponine out of her chair in the process. Once she was seated, he took Grantaire by the upper arm and pushed him into the remaining chair. He stepped back and pantomimed bowing out, gesturing for Enjolras and Combeferre to proceed.

Courfeyrac was quite possibly the most theatrical person Enjolras knew.

With a sigh, Enjolras walked toward the table. Thankfully, Combeferre started first. “So. Hello, and welcome to the symphony. My name is Combeferre, I’m a senior, and I play cello. This is Enjolras, our concertmaster, but you’ve already met him.”  
“Yes. And it was nice to meet all of you.” A half-truth. Grantaire wasn’t quite the person Enjolras was expecting. “Valjean told you all the technical stuff, the performance times, the expectations, et cetera. But we’re here to talk to you about everything else –”

“Like, oh, the _camaraderie_ between the musicians and the _sheer beauty_ of the majestic music itself?” From Grantaire, who then took a swig from a bottle. It wasn’t unexpected, but Enjolras still felt irritation stir.

“Yes, but no,” answered Combeferre smoothly. “We’re going to be rehearsing quite a lot, so it’s probably better to make other members of the orchestra like you.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“Combeferre and I have been in this orchestra since freshman year. You can play with people at the same level, who love music as much as you do.” Enjolras ignored the snort from Grantaire, focusing on the other three freshmen instead. “It’s like a release from college. Speaking of that, are any of you double majors or pre-med?”

The three people who weren’t Grantaire – Marius, Jehan, and Cosette – gave him blank looks and quick head shakes.

“Well, good for you. I’m double majoring political science and sociology, and Combeferre’s a pre-med student. And it is – well, let’s just say that there’s a lot of work to do. And orchestra relieves us.”

“Yeah. And you will also undoubtedly make friends with each other and with every one of us here.” Combeferre gestured to the cluster of their friends behind them, pretending Grantaire wasn’t rolling his eyes. “No, really though, Courfeyrac – that’s the curly-haired trumpet guy – is going to drag us out here pretty much every week.”

Enjolras and Combeferre moved into the area of concert matters, like what it would be like, the people attending, etc. Grantaire interjected his rather rude comments about every six to eight sentences. Enjolras tried to focus on Jehan, Marius, and Cosette. He even tried to pay attention to details. He noticed that both Cosette's and Marius's faces were red; was it warm in this room? But Enjolras found himself angry again.

“Can you just shut up?” he finally burst out. Combeferre’s sentence trailed off. Marius and Jehan stared at him, and Cosette cast a glance out of the corner of her eye at the bassist.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and gave a bark of laughter that wasn’t funny at all. He tipped his bottle back and pushed himself up. “Whatever you say, Master Apollo. I suppose you’ll want me to leave your godly, divine, _musical_ presence as well.”

His chair scraped back on the floor. He turned around, walked away, and he was gone.

Enjolras stared after him, his jaw clenched. (He wouldn’t admit this either, but his stomach was clenched as well.) Better that he was gone.

Combeferre was trying to get his attention. When Enjolras looked back at the table, Jehan had also stood up. “Hey, um, Enjolras, I’m going to go after him. R’s my roommate,” he said apologetically. “Thanks so much for bringing us out here. The symphony sounds great.” He took a few steps toward the exit. “Nice to meet all of you. See you Wednesday. Bye, Courf!”

Jehan waved and hurried out the door.

Enjolras tried to ignore the way Marius and Cosette were pointedly not looking at him. Combeferre and Courfeyrac gave him concerned looks.

No, he did not feel bad for what he said. Absolutely not. Grantaire was just being melodramatic, anyway. He'd be fine next rehearsal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NINETEEN DAYS OH MY GOODNESS I AM SO SORRY
> 
> I also feel like the quality of this story is decreasing with each chapter I post. So be so kind as to leave me a comment here or talk to me on Tumblr at iam-brick-pentameter. Seriously. Criticism would be great.
> 
> Is there an excessive amount of Courfeyrac?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre doesn’t want to deal with Enjolras and Éponine finds out who the blonde oboist is.

Enjolras seemed to be just as affected by Grantaire as Grantaire was apparently affected by Enjolras.

“-and I can’t believe that he just said he didn’t care. He’s a classical bassist who’s played for eleven years and played in San Francisco for four years, no less. That’s almost as long as us. How can he just sit there and _drink_ during orchestra?” Enjolras threw his hands up, almost hitting the waitress who was carrying their platters of pancakes and waffles.

From across the booth, Combeferre sighed internally. The rant had started when they left the café yesterday. Enjolras had raged about the three “activists” he had met on the way to orchestra until they arrived back to their apartment, where Combeferre had asked to do one of their violin-cello duets in an attempt to calm him. And it worked, until this morning, when Enjolras woke to find that a breeze through the window they accidentally left open had blown all the music off both their stands and scattered it all around the living room. There was no salvaging his mood after that.

Enjolras scowled when the waitress slid his plate of pancakes on the table. Combeferre smiled at her awkwardly in apology when she gave him a confused and somewhat offended look, then braced himself.

He could just hear the minimum wage rant coming. And yes, he cared about the issue, his friends called him patient, he was best friends with Enjolras, but he did not need this right now.

To Combeferre’s slight surprise, Enjolras only frowned into his food. And Combeferre had learned over the years that when Enjolras was silent about social issues, it usually meant that he was being… emotional.

Most of the time this was worse. At least Combeferre could deal with Enjolras on a rampage. And he was in no mood to talk to his emotionally constipated best friend. He had his own problems to worry about.

(Éponine.)

But being the absolutely, utterly, without-a-doubt wonderful friend he is, Combeferre reached across the table to put his hand on Enjolras’s. He looked him straight in the eye. “Enjolras,” he said soothingly, “what’s wrong?”

The blond ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He dropped their eye contact. “I’m okay, only tired.”

“Enjolras.”

“Really. I’m tired.”

Combeferre was quite tempted to stop right there, but, “ _Enjolras._ ”

“Fine. It’s just, um, do you think I was…too harsh to Grantaire yesterday?”

Yes, Combeferre privately thought. But Grantaire seemed to be Enjolras’s polar opposite, which meant that he would come back to orchestra. Where they could sort things out _without_ his help.

So he gave his friend a variation of the “it’s going to be fine” talk he usually had to give Joly and Courfeyrac. Enjolras was pacified after five minutes, and they went back to debating over Tchaikovsky’s best symphony. (Definitely his Sixth, although the Fourth and Fifth weren’t bad either. Then again, none of Tchaikovsky is _bad._ )

This was what Combeferre liked about Sundays. When there weren’t any protests to plan or attend, or emergency orchestra rehearsal, or when neither of them felt a burning need to practice, they slept in until 9:00 and had breakfast at a diner nearby (it had fair-trade coffee, a recycling and compost system, a tiny, unnoticeable trash can, and biodegradable _everything_ ). They typically had a peaceful, quiet morning of discussing music or political activism, undisturbed by their more boisterous friends.

The bell above the door of the diner chimed, announcing someone’s entrance. Combeferre, who sat facing the door, saw Courfeyrac come in. He looked around, spotted them, and hurried toward their booth.

So much for quiet.

“Enj! Ferre!” Courfeyrac exclaimed before he even reached the table. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“It’s not like you didn’t know we were going to be here,” replied Enjolras, glaring a little as their friend plopped down next to him and jostled him nearer to the wall.

“Well, aren’t you being mean today. I’m moving.” Courfeyrac sniffed. He stood up to slide next to Combeferre instead.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “So how was rehearsal for you yesterday?”

“Great. Loving the trumpet part, guys.” He took a sip out of Enjolras’s black coffee, and pretended to gag immediately. “Ugh, what is this?”

Enjolras sighed before grabbing his coffee mug back. “How about the other pieces?”

“Well, _I_ am going to play Fiyero in _Wicked_. I hope. I’m going to audition anyway. So I don’t need to worry about playing the music.” He picked up Combeferre’s fork while the latter was drinking coffee and stole a piece of his waffle.

“Do you want me to be your accompanist again?” Combeferre had accompanied for him for most of his auditions in the past.

But Courfeyrac took a long time to chew and swallow, flicking at a crumb on the table and looking sheepish. “Um, Ferre, about that, actually. You know my friend Jehan –”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “The wonderful flutist with whom you’ve been friends just over a month who is really cute and wears flowers and writes adorable poems? Yes, we know.” He took on a more serious tone. “It’s fine, if you want him to accompany you. Seriously.”

Courfeyrac looked guilty. “Really? I’m sorry. But Jehan’s a little short on money, and he plays piano, so I just figured… I’m sorry, Combeferre.”

“It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

(Secretly, Combeferre was relieved. He was going to be quite busy this semester, what with trying to get into medical school and helping his brother transition from high school to college. Also, Éponine.)

“Alright then… Sorry, man. But, you guys met Jehan yesterday.” Courfeyrac swiveled his head from Enjolras to Combeferre and back, staring at them with wide green eyes.

“Yes. I suppose that at this point you expect us to comment on him,” said Enjolras. “Do you know if he’s ever played the Fifth Symphony before? If he was sight-reading, he’s incredibly talented. Even if he wasn’t, he’s still quite good.”

Combeferre nodded. “He’s a very nice person, from what I can tell.”

Courfeyrac looked pleased. “Great. See, I knew you guys would like him. Yeah, he played it in high school. But it was, like, sophomore year or something! So it was a long time ago. He’s really good.” He sighed before sticking his elbows on the table and resting his chin in his hands.

Enjolras looked perplexed at his behavior. “Courfeyrac?”

“Didn’t you think he was cute? He looks so delicate, but he’s a black belt in aikido. Oh, did you see the flowers in his hair? He picked them on the way...” Courfeyrac continued to ramble about Jehan’s beauty and adorableness.

Combeferre had never known the other to act like this. He generally flirted with people and had a weeklong relationship with them, “breaking up” amicably. He didn’t stare at them forever and go on and on about them in front of everyone.

Come to think of it, Combeferre hadn’t seen Courfeyrac actually flirt with anyone in a while…

* * *

Musichetta and Éponine lived across the hall from each other during their freshman year. They didn’t look much alike – Éponine was five-two and still skinny from years of hunger while Musichetta was five-eight and full-figured. But other than that, they weren’t drastically different. They were sophomores, selflessly loyal, and could beat up sexist, racist, or generally discriminative idiots twice their size in half a minute.

Not to mention, they were both pining after boys at the moment. Well, maybe not exactly _pining,_ but they were both having what Musichetta’s mother would call “boy problems.”

On Tuesday night, Courfeyrac called them together to another gathering at the Musain again. It turned out to be one of the twice-month Open Mic nights, in which Courfeyrac’s friend, Jehan the Magnificent Flutist and Poet, delightedly participated. Enjolras scowled and crossed his arms, muttering about wasted practice time, but didn’t make a move to leave.

Musichetta sat in the corner with Éponine, both of them drinking the caramel macchiatos that Courfeyrac used to bribe them to come. Their eyes were on Jehan, who was at the microphone, and Courfeyrac, who was sitting at the closest possible table.

“How long do you think it’ll take for them…?” Éponine asked idly.

“Courfeyrac and Jehan?”

The violin player nodded.

“Hmm…” Musichetta drummed her fingers on the table thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Obviously they like each other.”

“But Courfeyrac hasn’t done anything real yet. That’s kinda unlike him.”

“Hey, maybe this is the ‘real thing.’ Oh, yeah, _speaking_ of the real thing,” Musichetta started.

“Ooh, is this going to be about Feuilly and Bahorel?” interrupted Éponine.

“No… what? No! What are you talking about? No. Have you noticed those two?” She pointed to Marius and Cosette.

Éponine took a very long sip of her drink, like she was wishing that it were something stronger. “Yes, actually, I have.”

“Oh, my God, you thought he was cute,” exclaimed Musichetta. “You had one of those crushes where you completely fall in love over someone in the span of an hour!”

“I do not _fall in love_ , but yes. I just don’t understand why this keeps happening! I’ll talk to someone, and they’re always either uninterested or already dating someone. It’s not fair! And it isn’t like there aren’t boys in orchestra.” Éponine whipped her hand through the air, gesturing to all of their friends around them. “But Courfeyrac’s now completely smitten with Jehan, Enjolras still has a stick up his ass, and something is going on with Feuilly and Bahorel. Ugh!” She rolled her eyes and huffed in exasperation. “Obviously, I don’t need a boyfriend, but one would be much appreciated, thanks.”

“What about Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, and that new bass player?” suggested Musichetta, hoping her voice was completely neutral.

But despite her frustration, Éponine smirked. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch Joly and Bossuet. One, Joly would freak out and Bossuet would probably whack me across the face by accident, and two, you’d beat me up.”

The other girl flushed in spite of herself. She drank for a long moment to hide her face before speaking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, how long is it going to take you to ask one or the both of them out?”

“…I don’t know what you're talking about.”

“Come on! I’m pretty sure Joly knows you like him.”

Musichetta needed a second to process this. “What? How do you know that?” she said, a little too fast and a little too similar to a seventh-grader.

“Well,” Éponine drew out the word, “you’re always looking at him. And pretty much whenever you’re looking, he just happens to also be looking at you, too, right?” Musichetta nodded. Éponine continued. “And whenever I mention you, he turns completely red. Kind of like you right now.”

They were silent for a few seconds, listening to Jehan recite poetry.

“Whatever. I’ll think about this later.” Musichetta waved her hands, as if she could push away the issue. “How are Marius and Cosette, do you think?”

“Wait, you say her name’s Cosette?” Éponine turned white faster than Musichetta had ever seen. “Do you know her last name?”

“I dunno, started with an ‘F,’ I think.” She shrugged.

Almost to herself, Éponine muttered, “I knew she looked familiar.” To Musichetta she said, “Is it Fauchelevent?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Do you know her?” Musichetta asked curiously.

“Yeah… So you know my shitty parents? They conned the government into letting them be foster parents, right? Cosette lived at our house for a few months.”

“What? But I heard that she’s Professor Valjean’s daughter.” Musichetta leaned in a bit secretively.

“Could be her adopted father. I don’t know.” Éponine shrugged casually, though her face was still pale. “Anyway, I guess it’s cool to see her again.”

Musichetta was worried. “Did something happen when she was living with you?” she asked cautiously.

Éponine shook her head, but there was a frown on her face.

The viola player laid her hand gently on the other girl’s arm. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Éponine nodded. Color was beginning to revive her features.

There was a prolonged silence between them as people clapped or snapped their fingers for Jehan. The two girls joined them.

Another poet took the stage. Musichetta flashed a thumbs-up and a smile at Jehan, who was now sitting with Courfeyrac. She turned back to Éponine. “So will you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” said Éponine a little defensively.

“What were you saying about Feuilly and Bahorel?”

“Oh, _that_!”

They never did get back to talking about Éponine’s love life, and never considered the new bassist or Combeferre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen days this time. SORRY
> 
> For the purposes of this fic (because I'm very lazy and don't want to think about anything), Cosette's last name was Fauchelevent since she was born.
> 
> Also, school starts in about a week (on the day the City of Bones movie comes out - WHY). These already infrequent updates will probably be downright sporadic, and I'm really really sorry in advance. But at least school means band and orchestra, where I might get inspired by the new pieces and include more musically exciting things in future chapters.
> 
> Other than that, thanks for reading, comment if you have criticism or suggestions, and say hello on Tumblr at iam-brick-pentameter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius has problems. Bahorel is strangely deep.
> 
> Enjolras and Grantaire have their problems. Valjean is here, yay.

On Wednesday, Courfeyrac stopped at Jehan’s dorm to walk with him to orchestra. He walked down the hallway, humming. His trumpet case swung at his hips, hanging down from the cross-body strap. He patted down his curls, leaned against the doorframe, smiled, and knocked twice.

He heard a muffled “Hang on, I’m coming!” before Jehan swung open the door. His face was flushed and he beckoned Courfeyrac inside frenziedly while instructing him to “wait one minute, or three, maybe, I don’t know!”

Courfeyrac stepped inside, eyes trailing after Jehan (the dark red T-shirt with the Japanese characters on the back didn’t match much with his floral skinny jeans, but he was _so cute_ ) before taking in the room. It was a mess. Textbooks, poetry books, and God-knows-what-else books were strewn all over the unmade bed. Some of them were flipped open, some were lying facedown, and some were in helter-skelter piles. There were papers and more books scattered beside his laptop, which was on the floor. A dozen colorful pens hung halfway out of an overturned plastic milkshake cup on the ground right in front of him. The foldable music stand was on the floor, music spilling out of Jehan’s folder. Jehan himself was rummaging in the wardrobe.

And Grantaire sat on his bed with a bottle in his hand, entirely unperturbed. He raised a hand in greeting.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac said, bending down to push the pens back into the cup and straighten it. His trumpet bumped against his knee. “We have to go to rehearsal, and why aren’t you helping?”

He got a shrug in response. “Whatever.” Courfeyrac moved around to the bed to tidy the books. “Oh, and he doesn’t want you to–”

Jehan suddenly flew across the room, swatting his hand away from closing a textbook. “No don’t touch it!” Courfeyrac stepped back in alarm. Jehan went back to looking through his closet frantically. “I’m sorry, I spent an hour looking – well, never mind. Just – could you get my music please?”

Mystified, Courfeyrac put the music stand vertical. He gathered the sheet music, took a quick look to make sure it was in order, and slid it back into the folder.

“Ha!” Jehan screamed suddenly. He emerged from the wardrobe, holding a filing box in the air triumphantly. He set it down gently on Grantaire’s desk and rummaged through, coming up with two worn books. Moving swiftly around the room, Jehan pulled out a maroon backpack from under his bed, tucked the two books in it, scooped up his piccolo, and slid that inside too.

“You coming, R?” he said, grabbing his flute case from his desk.

The bassist shook his head. “I’ll go in a moment.”

“Okay, see you!” said Jehan. He took Courfeyrac by the hand and pulled him out of the chaos that was his room, closing the door behind him and shuddering.

“Sorry. That was disturbingly disorganized. Ooh, alliteration! Let’s go.” Jehan did not let go of his hand and instead tugged him down the hallway and out the doors. Courfeyrac happily followed.

As they walked, Jehan told him why his room resembled a disaster zone. He was researching the poet Dylan Thomas. His laptop was dead, and while it charged on Grantaire's desk, he had dug through many of his poetry collections. When he’d rebooted it and Googled it, he knocked over the music stand by accident in his excitement. At that point Grantaire had come in, and that reminded him of orchestra and Marius, to whom he was lending the books.

Courfeyrac listened with rapt attention, his fingers idly playing with the flower he had plucked on the way. In his hurry today, Jehan had not woven flowers into his hair. Courfeyrac let go of his hand and stepped up next to him as they entered the building. He slid the flower stem behind his ear. Jehan flushed (he flushed at everything, but Courfeyrac’s heart did a _grand jete_ anyway) and beamed at him.

Courfeyrac absolutely did _not_ start blushing too.

They went up the stairs, giggling about the video of the baby duck falling asleep that Combeferre posted to Jehan’s Facebook yesterday. (But really, Combeferre’s ability to _know_ someone in such a short period of time was creepy.)

They went into the room. About half of the musicians were present, including – rather unsurprisingly – Enjolras and Combeferre. Courfeyrac cheerfully waved and Enjolras gave him a nod, his attention back to the rosin and bow in his hand. Jehan went to sit down and the first trumpet slid into the seat next to him dexterously. The flautist put the pic case under his chair while twisting backward and craning his neck.

“What are you looking for?” asked Courfeyrac, trying to follow his line of sight.

“Marius,” said Jehan, straightening and pulling out the two books from his backpack. The person in question walked through the door then, and the two of them frantically waved him over. The redhead stumbled over listlessly.

“Hey,” he said glumly, sitting down and clicking open his case almost mechanically.

“Hi, Marius,” Jehan said, concern apparent in his features. “I have the poetry books you wanted… Are you okay?”

Marius nodded, looking down at his instrument parts.

Courfeyrac laid a hand on his arm. “Marius, what’s wrong?”

When he finally looked up at them, they could see the worry in his eyes. Jehan leaped across the chairs, engulfing the dazed clarinet player in a giant hug. Courfeyrac patted his back.

“Maybe we don’t know you that well, but you can trust us. We can help you. What happened?” Courfeyrac looked him encouragingly in the eye. Jehan withdrew and nodded vigorously.

Marius took a deep breath and blurted out two quick paragraphs explaining his situation. Apparently his grandfather had kicked him out after he found out that Marius was in a rally that almost had him arrested. He’d sent him money afterward, but Marius didn’t want to take it out of pride. He’d just had meetings with the bank and with the college about his student loans, and “it’s not looking very good right now,” he finished.

“Poor darling,” Jehan said, wrapping an arm around him sideways.

(Courfeyrac may have felt a slight twinge of totally irrational jealously.)

“Well, Enjolras would definitely approve of you attending that rally,” he said. “To say he’s an activist is the understate–”

Just then, a booming voice cut through the idle chatter of the musicians around them. “Yo, Courfeyrac!”

Bahorel, with his huge frame that practically blocked out the light, made his way quickly over, but slowed down as he neared.

Feuilly was behind him. “Hey, what’s up?” he said, not unconcerned.

Courfeyrac waved them over. “Hey, guys. This is Marius, our new first clarinet. Marius, these are my friends Bahorel and Feuilly. They’re juniors. Bahorel’s the big one, who plays trombone” – here Bahorel grinned – “and Feuilly’s the ginger. He plays percussion.” He tipped his ever-present newsboy cap and smiled a little.

Marius looked frightened, especially after Bahorel picked up a chair with one hand, swung it around, and straddled it in two-point-five seconds flat.

“Nice to meet you.” Bahorel held out a gigantic hand that Marius shook timidly. “What’s going on?”

Marius slumped over again and Jehan rubbed a comforting hand on his back. Courfeyrac glanced at him to ask whether it was okay and Marius nodded.

“Financial problems. His granddad kicked him out, and he had a meeting today with the bank and–”

“Oh, it’s that. Sorry, dude,” Bahorel said sympathetically. “Things will get better. Feuilly’s been there.”

The drummer nodded. “Do you have a job?”

Marius shook his head.

“Well, we’re gonna help you find one, okay?” Bahorel clapped a hand on the clarinetist’s shoulder, and Marius practically buckled under the force. The ‘bone player hesitated for a moment, then took on a more solemn tone and stared Marius in the eyes. “Listen. You’ve played in other orchestras, right? You’ve probably been a first chair somewhere else, and you know that most principal players don’t give a shit about each other. They don't even know each other's names. But we’re different here. We are the leaders of our sections, like in a marching band or something. Our sections are friends with us, and we’re friends with each other. We’ll help each other – and accept help, too.”

There was a beat of pretty heavy silence, until Feuilly laughed. “And this is coming from you of all people…”

In an instant, Bahorel stood up and had Feuilly in a noogie. He ground his knuckles into his curls while chortling loudly. Feuilly jabbed him in the abdomen with drumsticks. All seriousness was gone, and Marius laughed shakily. “Thanks, guys.”

“We’re going to help you get a job,” Feuilly said as his and Bahorel’s struggle brought him close to Marius. Then he let out a strangled noise and elbowed the trombone in the stomach.

“Okay. Oh, yeah, Jehan, thanks!” Marius brightened and picked up the books that Jehan brought. Courfeyrac now saw that they were poetry collections.

“What are those for?”

Marius promptly turned scarlet. “Oh, um, well…”

“Marius is trying to woo a girl. That oboe player, actually,” Jehan answered. “And I’m going to help him.”

“Ooh, is it the blonde girl?” Courfeyrac said. He wasn’t about to waste time in immersing himself in gossip.

Marius nodded yes.

“Oh my gosh, have you talked to her? What’s she like? Is she nice?”

“Yeah. I mean, sort of. She’s amazing!” Here Marius was starry-eyed and lovestruck (something that Courfeyrac completely understood). “Have you even seen her hair, it looks soft and wavy and it’s so beautiful…”

* * *

 

They started the music for _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ that day. It was pretty easy music, maybe something that could have been played by high school students. But Grantaire didn’t mind much. He had played an arrangement of “Nocturne” in middle school. He never exactly loved playing bass, but his honors orchestra class in the eighth grade was the best group of people he’d ever met. And playing this brought back fond memories of people he genuinely cared for and who actually liked him.

The next year, the group had scattered to different high schools. The only people who had gone to Grantaire’s high school were a pair of twins, violinists, and they had transferred away the year after. That was also the year Grantaire’s father lost his job and began hitting his mother and him. His mother filed for divorce and vented her anger by slapping him if he didn’t achieve academically and musically. And Grantaire’s life fell apart.

It was also his first year at SFSYO, which was a product of his mother’s abusive tiger-mom-ing. Maybe that was why he did not associate it with anything good.

But eighth grade was the last time he remembered having someone truly care about him.

He wouldn’t admit it if anyone ever asked, but it was in respect to his memories that he stayed late to help the third bass with a difficult shift. He made his way to the back of the room after they were finished, barely able to see with the bass held in front of him. He clipped a combination lock – they were cheaper than number locks – on the black fabric case, spun the dial a few times, and locked it in the bass cabinet.

Grantaire turned around, brushing his rosin-covered hands off on his paint-splattered jeans. He was thinking that he’d go back to his dorm, drink, fill up another page with sketches of a golden-haired Adonis…

And said golden-haired Adonis was looking at him. Not directly at him, but at a spot over his shoulder.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Grantaire blinked, and then smirked. “Apollo,” he drawled. “Good to see you again.”

“Grantaire,” said Enjolras, not looking very pleased at the nickname. He took a few steps toward him. “You as well.”

Okay, now Grantaire was actually confused.

Enjolras glanced behind him, and Grantaire followed his gaze to the principal cellist, who was giving the concertmaster a reprimanding but somehow encouraging look.

Maybe Enjolras was really going to kick him out of orchestra. Not that he minded, of course, he told himself. Not that orchestra was important.

Enjolras looked back at Grantaire, staring at his nose. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back. After what I said.”

Oh. That.

(He was fine after a night of drinking everything he could find.)

But he laughed, too bitter, too short. “Of course I’m here again.”

Enjolras’s face was expressionless. “I – I apologize for what I said last time,” he said stiffly. “It was uncalled for.”

Grantaire waved it away, a practiced mask of casual and uncaring on his face. “It’s okay.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“Good job today. If you have any questions whatsoever, you can ask me, Professor Valjean, Combeferre, or Courfeyrac. I’ll see you again on Saturday, then.” Enjolras nodded to himself and marched out of the room briskly. The cello guy followed, but only after a worried glance at him.

Valjean had a way of making people forget that he was in the room, but now he made his presence known. “Grantaire?” he said quietly.

The bassist jumped slightly.

“Don’t mind Enjolras. He gets like that,” the conductor said. It was the first time he talked to Grantaire alone, and the latter noticed the warm, reassuring tone. And it wasn’t fake, like with most other “paternal” people he’d known.

But well-meant or not, Grantaire had no desire to respond to that. “Okay, thanks.”

Valjean was apparently undeterred by Grantaire’s lack of a reply. “Enjolras has trouble considering other people’s feelings.”

If his conductor could detect that Enjolras had affected him…

“Thanks. Bye.” He turned around and left the room, pulling a flask from his zipped jacket pocket and tipping it back before the door shut behind him.

…fucking hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> I don't play bass, and I've never played anything that isn't an arrangement of Midsummer Night's Dream, so I don't actually know if there's a difficult bass shift. If anyone knows, tell me, please.
> 
> I'm really sorry about the cheesy thing that Bahorel said.
> 
> During my long, boring math classes last week, I managed to plan out the rest of "First Movement." (There will be four movements, like in the Fifth Symphony.) These chapters have all been filler chapter-style relationship build-up ( I hope), and nothing's happened so far. Well, things will start happening. :D
> 
> Criticize me, yell at me, laugh at me, laugh with me, fangirl with me, or just generally talk to me on Tumblr: iam-brick-pentameter. (No, really, I've recently become obsessed with the 25th Anniversary of Phantom of the Opera. I need someone to talk to. Rierra feeeeeeeeeeeels)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavroche battles with British music theory.
> 
> Musichetta pines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is a very, extremely, super, duper, really, really, really crappy chapter. It's also a lot shorter than usual.

Friday afternoon found Éponine free, her one class cancelled. She headed to what was technically Musichetta's and her apartment, but most of the time also held Azelma and Gavroche. She was intent on picking up her violin and hunting Enjolras down so she could practice.

She fully expected the apartment to be empty. Musichetta was in class and the place was too far from campus for any of their friends to come in between classes. But when she opened the door, she found Gavroche sprawled on his back on the couch, long legs hanging over the side. (Seriously, he was five-foot-seven, already able to tower over both his sisters.) His ABRSM Grade 8 Aural Testing book was open on his face, and the CD was playing the section about identifying cadences and chords.

Gavroche closed the book and paused the old CD player with his toe. “Hey, Éponine.”

She glanced at her watch. “It’s two forty-five. Why aren’t you at school? We talked about this.”

He beamed angelically up at her. “It’s an early release day. We got out at two-fifteen.”

Éponine snorted.

“No, we actually did,” the ninth-grader protested, sitting up.

“Whatever,” she said, moving to the couch and ruffling his hair. He swatted her hand away. “Where’s Azelma?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Not my sister’s keeper.”

Éponine hmm-ed and grabbed his aural book. She flipped it open and almost burst out laughing when she saw his annotations on the first page. “‘What the hell is the difference between Ia, Ib, and Ic?’” she read, her shoulders shaking to suppress the laughter. “‘Fuck cadences’? Gavroche, do you need help?”

He snatched the book back, scowling. “No. That was before. I get it now.” He picked up an eraser and viciously started to rub out the comments.

“Fine. Let’s see you do a few.” She started the CD again. When Gavroche’s head snapped up to glare at it, she swiped the book from him and flipped to the answer key, standing to get out of his reach. He scowled but gave up.

Piano music and an English accent filled the small living room. Gavroche sang the “lower part of this three-part phrase,” the notes wavering in his fourteen-year-old boy voice. He frowned as he answered “perfect” to a plagal cadence and identified a V7 chord as a Ic.

Éponine finally paused the CD, staring at her brother. “You need help.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Look. I’m not paying hundreds of dollars for you to have your piano lessons and take your exam if you’re planning to _fail_ , okay? I’m asking Enjolras.” Éponine pulled out her phone and tapped on the messaging icon.

Gavroche started grumbling. “Why him? Why can’t it be Courfeyrac or something?”

“Because his music theory’s not as good as Enjolras. Now shut up.”

 

 **Éponine:** I need ur help !!

 **Enjolras:** Are you okay? Where are you? Do you want me to pick you up from somewhere?

 **Enjolras:** Is your father there?

 **Éponine:** Relax, im ok Gavroche needs uour help with music stuff

 **Enjolras:** Wow. Thank you for that. I thought your safety was in jeopardy.

 **Éponine:** Not my fault you take everthing so srsly

 **Enjolras:** What does Gavroche want help with?

 **Éponine:** Grade 8 aural shit

 **Éponine:** I dont understand british music theory and u do

 **Éponine:** I don’t even know y his teacher does abrsm

 **Enjolras:** Éponine, it’s because she’s British.

 **Enjolras:** Can you bring him by after orchestra tomorrow? I’ll get us a practice room.

 **Éponine:** He says yes

 **Enjolras:** Good. Have you practiced today?

 **Éponine:** I was going to are you practicing now

 **Enjolras:** Yes.

 **Éponine** : don’t’ leave im coming

 

Éponine ruffled Gavroche’s hair affectionately again and stood up, grabbing her violin. (Enjolras always had a score of whatever piece they were playing, and she would read it from there.)

“Don’t get in trouble,” she said to her brother, and she left the apartment.

Gavroche waved merrily after her, but as soon as the door was shut he played the CD again, his brow furrowing in concentration.

* * *

Musichetta worked at a little café. It was fairly close to Éponine’s and her apartment, and most people who came in were other college students. It was very environmentally friendly, which she fully supported, with marked recycling and compost bins, biodegradable cups, and organic everything. It was cozy and nice, and Musichetta always felt like she was taking a break from life and all the work and drama that came along with it. Few of her friends even knew she worked there, and she liked to keep it that way.

It was the middle of her shift on Friday night. The café was devoid of customers. Musichetta was restocking the iced coffee cups and her coworker was putting the recycling, compost, and trash outside.

The door opened, the bell jingling. Musichetta looked up, expecting a group of four students who occasionally came on Friday nights. Instead, she saw the tall frames of Joly and Bossuet – out of all people – striding in. Joly was wearing Bossuet’s fedora and Bossuet was laughing while running his hands over his bald head. They were both wearing skinny jeans – they had absolutely _no_ right to look like that, damn it – while Joly had on a sweater and scarf and Bossuet wore a faded Batman T-shirt.

If Musichetta were someone who blushed, she’d be crimson.

But she let her braid hang perfectly down her spine and stood to her full height. “Hey, guys,” she said.

They both looked at her. Joly’s eyes widened and pink crept over his cheeks; she could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Bossuet’s dark eyebrows raised as his mouth slipped into a happy, easygoing smile.

They were really, really, _really_ cute.

“Hey, Musichetta,” said Bossuet, sounding surprised. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

She grinned. “Well, yep, I do. How may I help you today?”

Joly seemed to have recovered. He chuckled. It was an adorable, slightly squeaky sound, and Musichetta wanted to hear it again. And again. (Without really thinking, she resolved to make him laugh more often.)

They ordered two hot chocolates as a reward for Bossuet. “I only dropped two things today,” he told Musichetta proudly, grinning.

When she prepared their drinks, they chattered on about their day, finishing each other’s sentences and bursting into giggles simultaneously. She found herself somewhat envious of their bond, but mostly attracted to their general silliness. And their faces. As well as everything else about them.

Musichetta set the mugs on the counter. Joly picked them up while Bossuet fished out money and paid. As he handed the bills over to Musichetta, his hand brushed hers. He glanced away quickly, but she smiled at him, feeling her increased heartbeat.

She rummaged a drawer for a marshmallow pack. Standing up, she tossed it onto their table. They looked up in surprise and thanked her. When Joly caught her eye, a flush crawled over his cheeks and he ducked his head. Bossuet seemed not to notice, his eyes somewhere close to her face and then darting off, as if he were embarrassed.

Just to do something, Musichetta started taking the day’s unsold pastries from the glass case, but soon realized that she was in perfect view of her two orchestra… friends? Crushes? She moved quickly away. Upon her coworker’s return from the trash bins, she muttered that she was taking her break and went quickly out the door without hearing a reply.

Outside, she leaned against the wall and tilted her head back, shutting her eyes. Musichetta liked Joly and Bossuet, had liked them for a while. Since sometime in October of last year, actually. But she’d thought they were together and didn’t do anything about it. And they still seemed to be together. There was _something_ that ran deeper than an intense platonic bond. But they were both interested in her.

Yes, Musichetta knew that sounded rather contrived, but she would like to think that she had a very good eye for this, thanks. (Two conversations to Combeferre revealed that he had a crush on Éponine, but she decided against mentioning it to her roommate. Things would probably turn out fine.)

But – Bossuet and Joly were the most adorable people she had ever met and would likely ever meet. Choosing between them was impossible, unfair for all of them, and made her feel as if she were a character from a badly-written romance novel. It would harm the friendship between all three of them. It wasn’t her choice, anyway.

But she might combust if she didn’t do something soon. 

Argh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some really terrible attempted Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta fluff. I’m very very very very very sorry that it’s so bad and that it’s so short. But the next chapter will be longer, I promise. It’s also halfway written and most definitely plotted.
> 
> (Please don't kill me.)
> 
> Daniel Huttlestone is fourteen!!! My friend has the same birthday as he does, year and everything. Strangely, according to Wikipedia, Dan is 4' 10", and my friend is somewhere around 5' 10".
> 
> As usual, thanks a ton for reading! Talk to me on Tumblr or something. (Moosh.) Bye!


	8. Chapter 8

Valjean’s greatest fear was losing Cosette.

It was quite an irrational fear, of course. Cosette went to the college where he taught music. She was perfectly safe, on the third floor of a very safe dorm building where no one could kidnap her and where the window was too small for her to fall out accidentally. Her roommate was a nice, caring girl from her high school who went to bed early and had good grades. Cosette even agreed to audition into his orchestra - as long as he judged her with no favoritism - so he could make sure she was absolutely, completely fine.

But there was that underlying fear that crept up to the surface at night: that Cosette would meet someone and leave him forever.

Again, it was irrational. They didn’t live in the 1830s; there were phones and the Internet, where he could still ascertain that she was fine and communicate with her, even if he never saw her.

Not that that had ever stopped him from worrying and worrying and worrying.

But since she started college, Cosette had not shown any drastic change in her behavior. Currently, she was talking to the girl sitting next to her, who played clarinet. The rest of his musicians were getting out their things and chattering. Part of the brass section was playing an impromptu arrangement of some pop song. His crazy trumpet and trombone principal players, Courfeyrac and Bahorel, enthusiastically stood in front, conducting wildly. Valjean waited until he recognized the song’s end, stepped on the podium, and raised his hands. Gradually, the students became quiet.

Valjean said the usual hellos, tuned the orchestra, and proceeded with rehearsal. “As you know, we don’t need every single person of every section to do the plays, although some sections will have to play for each play _._ Today I’m going to split you up into two groups. Group A is going to play _Midsummer_ , Group B will do the play next month if orchestra is needed, Group A will do it in November, and so forth.

“Today, Group A will be practicing with me in the theater. All section leaders, including the ones in Group A, will be leading sectionals with your Group B players. Feel free to use any unlocked practice room you find on this floor. Enjolras will then conduct Group B in Tchaikovsky. In an hour, Group A will come back up, and we’ll all play Tchaikovsky.”

The group nodded.

“Of course, some sections are too small to be split into two; I’m afraid you’ll have to play for all or at least most of the plays.”

Valjean listed his string musicians, and then separated his winds section by section. The percussion, many of the woodwinds, and some low brasses were in cycles.

“So Group A, come with me. You only need to bring your music and instrument,” said Valjean. “Group B, do sectionals. Enjolras, I trust you will conduct?”

The concertmaster nodded.

Valjean led Group A down to the dark theater through the front. He switched on colored lights, and sighed at how dim they were. “This is the pit,” he said, gesturing to the space below the stage. It already had chairs and stands set up in it. Valjean continued to list the seating chart.

He took his place at the podium. “Turn to ‘Nocturne’ from _Midsummer_ , please. We will play from there on.”

He waited until the group opened to the pages, then raised the baton. “I’ll give you two bars, and play the pick-up in the second bar. One, two, three, one, two…”

* * *

Sectionals for Combeferre was going pretty well. He and the Group B cellists worked on a section in the first movement of Symphony No. 5. He really liked his group; they were very talented.

Enjolras opened the door to the practice room to say that they were going to start soon and to wrap things up. Combeferre ran through the section one more time and dismissed them. He leaned his cello against the hallway wall and tidied up the room, setting the chairs and music stands back. He closed the door, music folder under his arm and bow in hand. Picking up his instrument, he walked down the hallway and to the back stairs, which were closer to the theater. Combeferre set his cello carefully against his shoulder and pulled open the heavy door. As he went through, he turned too quickly to the stairs. His folder turned upside-down, promptly slipped out from under his arm, and sheet music cascaded down the steps.

Combeferre sighed. It was probably better to walk to the first landing, set his stuff down, and then pick up the sheets. He had made it most of the way down when he heard the door open from upstairs, and shifted out of the way as much as he could to let the person pass. Instead, there was a sound of shuffling paper. He turned just in time to bump his arm against the person holding out the music folder to him.

“I figured you wanted some help,” said Éponine, her violin tucked in rest position under her arm.

He blinked and almost forgot to take the music back. “Oh. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. You’re welcome.” He expected her to keep going, but she stood there waiting for him. Once he had picked everything back up, she walked with him down the stairs.

“How is everything?” Combeferre asked finally as Éponine held open the stairwell door for him, which lead into the backstage hallway with the dressing rooms.

“Pretty good,” she answered. Her dark eyes searched his face for an instant, and his heart stuttered. Apparently she decided that he was trustworthy, because she started to talk again.

“Gavroche is in high school now, and Azelma’s a senior this year. At least now they’re at the same school. If they stay out of trouble, they can keep staying with me.”

Combeferre knew about the situation with Éponine’s siblings and parents, and he nodded in response. Up close, he could see the tiredness in her face and the dark under her eyes.

Éponine held the door to the wings of the stage open, and he stepped through gratefully. They could hear the others playing _Midsummer_.

“What classes are you taking this semester?” he asked. It was a safer topic, and he trusted himself not to mess up. (With another person, he might have been able to keep on the same topic without saying the wrong thing. But with Éponine, well, his pulse was too fast anyway.)

She listed the required classes, a few electives he wasn’t surprised to hear about, and then said, “Also, I’m taking that new programming course.”

“The one with the UC Berkeley-slash-MIT program?”

Éponine glanced at him in the dimness between the curtains of the wings. “Yeah.” There was a hint of defiance in her expression, as if she expected him to scoff at her.

(He would never, ever do such a thing.)

Maybe their other friends would not have expected that she would take a class like that. But he knew that Éponine was smart. She always noticed things before most others did. She knew that computer programming was going to be crucial.

“Good for you,” he said. “How is that going?”

“Pretty well.”

“You know, I wrote a program with BYOB a couple of years ago. I can email it to you as an example. I mean, if you ever need any help or anything – I mean, not that you’re ever going to need help, I’m sure you’ll be good at that. But I mean, you can just look at the code and maybe –” He trailed off mid-ramble, and controlled his breathing so his face wouldn’t flush.

Éponine, whose eyebrow had lifted during his rant, then smiled, an actual, appreciative one. “That would be awesome. Thanks.”

They had walked off of the stage and were descending the stairs toward the pit now, and Valjean had noticed them. He waved them in quickly and stopped the music at the end of the nearest phrase.

Combeferre sat down, setting out his music. The third chair (the second chair was in the other group) pointed out where they were. Valjean started conducting again, but it wasn’t long before he stopped to deal with something in the low brasses’ music.

The phone on his stand buzzed once, twice, three times. With an idea – a hope – of who it was from, he looked up quickly. Éponine was carefully writing in the music with a pencil.

(She rarely ever needed to write in any notes, especially not in something as simple as _Midsummer_. That was how he knew.)

He unlocked his phone and opened the texts. They _were_ from her.

 

**Éponine:** Instead of emailingit, wanna show it to me? we can meet up somewhere

**Éponine:** Im sure your program’s so complex I wont be able to get it on my own

**Éponine:** Only if you wnt to of course

 

Combeferre struggled to control his smile.

 

**Combeferre:** Of course! I’ll be happy to show it to you in person.

**Combeferre:** When are you free?

**Éponine:** Enjolras ishelping Gavroche with music theory after this. I dont think they want me there

**Éponine:** We could get coffee

**Éponine:** If you have your laptop with you, I mean. if not it’s ok

**Combeferre:** Today is fine, and I do have my laptop with me. Coffee sounds great.

**Éponine:** :D

 

Combeferre looked up and caught her gaze. She gave him a thumbs-up and a sideways smile, and he couldn’t quite help the grin that spread across his face.

* * *

After Valjean returned, they rehearsed the first movement of Symphony No. 5 again. Enjolras thought that they were sounding a lot better. Not _good_ , exactly, but they did have three months to work on it.

He packed up his instrument, mostly looking down and concentrating on his case. When he looked up again, violin, bow, and chin rest secure, Éponine and Gavroche were in front of him.

“Hey, Enjolras,” said Éponine. Her hand was squeezing her brother’s arm. “Thank you so much! Gavroche mostly needs help with cadences.” To her brother, she said with a scowl, “Gavroche, do not steal anything. Do not break anything. These instruments cost a lot of money, and I don’t have the kind of money to replace them.” She hissed something in his ear.

Gavroche’s mouth twisted, and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Sis, got it.”

“Text me when you’re done. Have fun, you two, and try not to kill each other!” she said, oddly cheerful, and waved good-bye as she backed out of the room.

Enjolras looked around the room for Combeferre so he could tell him that the latter should leave without him. He expected his best friend to be helping Valjean to tidy up the room or sort through the music, but instead saw him staring at the door with a funny expression on his face. Enjolras pondered reasons for this, but could not come up with any.

“Hey, Enjolras. Yo. Enjolras!”

He realized that Gavroche had been impatiently calling his name. Enjolras directed his attention back to the teenager.

“So, uh, don’t tell Éponine this,” began Gavroche, eyes darting around furtively as if his sister were about to jump out at him, “but it’s not just the cadences I need help with. I didn’t study at all for this until, like, a week ago and my test is really soon. So I kinda need help with everything.”

 “I’ll help as much as possible,” began Enjolras, dubious, “but I don’t think we’ll be able to cover everything in this one session…”

Gavroche nodded. “Yeah, I know. But could we do something from each section? Then maybe I could go home and study more and whatever.”

“Can I see your book?” said Enjolras, and Gavroche handed it to him. He looked through it. It was nothing overly difficult, but it was hard enough. He was positive that Gavroche would understand it, though.

As Enjolras was about to go out to find a practice room, the conductor spoke. “You’re Gavroche, Éponine’s brother?”

The teenager looked up in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Nice to meet you,” Valjean said, moving toward them with his hand extended. “I’m Valjean, the conductor of this orchestra.”  
“Nice.”

“Do you play an instrument?” Valjean’s eyes were twinkling. “Perhaps you could join us if you ever plan on coming here.”

“Just piano,” Gavroche said, making a face quickly. “I’m taking a test soon. That’s why I’m here right now.”

“Well, I’m not going to interfere with your studying,” said Valjean. “However, if you were planning on moving to another room, feel free to stay here, if you wish. I like being in a more open room than one of those tiny practice rooms. Besides, we have a CD player here, if you need it.”

“We’ll stay here, if that’s alright with you, Gavroche.”

The boy nodded.

Valjean smiled. “Well, I will have to run and copy some music, but I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. Grantaire, our first bassist, as I'm sure you know, is going to stay to help me tidy up this room. Good luck with your aural practice.” He turned and started walking out.

Grantaire? Enjolras hastily scanned the room. There he was. The dark-haired man placed the legs of chairs back in position, on top of the blue tape on the carpet. He looked up, seeming sensing Enjolras’s gaze. “Don’t mind me. Continue with your lesson, O Wonderful Apollo.”

Gavroche’s eyebrow quirked up slightly and Enjolras sighed irately, ignoring Grantaire. Tutor and pupil moved to the grand piano. Enjolras opened the shiny teal book to a random exercise and played. It was a modulations practice, where Gavroche had to identify the modulations in a major and then a minor key. The teenager was correct in the major excerpt, but in the minor part shook his head, looking lost.

“How can you tell?” asked Gavroche, his eyebrows pushed together.

“Listen for any accidentals in the music. If you hear any sharps, flats, or naturals –”

“Yeah, I know, but I can’t keep track of all of them,” grumbled Gavroche. “I hate minor.”

“Another way –” began Enjolras, but he was cut off.

“Remember the pitch of the tonic note in the first chord. When you listen to the last chord, you can usually tell whether it’s dominant, subdominant, or relative major and minor.”

Enjolras spun to stare at Grantaire, more than surprised. Gavroche’s head snapped around to look at him, too.

The bassist shrugged, folding up music stands. “I don’t really give a shit, but I’m lazy and I had to pass my Grade 8.”

“You play piano?” Enjolras said as Gavroche said, “You took Grade 8 ABRSM?”

Grantaire’s dark eyes glanced away for a second. He addressed Gavroche first. “Yeah. Grade 8 piano. I got a merit.” He shrugged again.

“That’s insane, man,” said Gavroche, sounding impressed.

(With great self-constraint, Enjolras finally managed to wrench his eyes away from Grantaire and stared at a portrait of Brahms on the wall.)

Grantaire carried stands to the rack. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Well, um, I’m taking Grade 8 really soon, and I… kind of need help,” said Gavroche. The toe of his sneakers dragged on the carpet. “Could you, like, I don’t know, help me or give me advice or something? Just a little. You know.” Like it was an afterthought, he looked back at Enjolras and added, “No offense to you or anything. But you didn’t do the British system –”

“No, I did not,” confirmed Enjolras, glad he could finally look at _something_.

“– so, yeah,” Gavroche finished. He looked at Grantaire hopefully. “Could you possibly help me?”

Grantaire blinked twice and nodded, a somewhat pleased look flashing over his features for an instant. In an absolutely unrelated way, Enjolras’s heart randomly sped up.

“Um, sure. I’m Grantaire, by the way. What’s your name?” he asked, putting away the last of the stands and moving toward them.

“Gavroche.” The fourteen-year-old stuck out his hand.

“And you’re… eighth grade or freshman?”

“Freshman,” said Gavroche rather proudly.

“Good for you.” Grantaire grinned, displaying a set of crooked teeth and _dimples_. Blood surged to Enjolras’s head, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing.

Enjolras said too loudly, “So do you still want me to help you?”

Gavroche considered for a second and nodded,  his eyes darting to the ground. “Yes. I need all the help I can get right now,” he admitted sheepishly, adding, “Don’t tell Éponine.”

Grantaire grinned again, and Enjolras was definitely blushing this time. “We won’t.”

Enjolras shook his head.

Grantaire’s too-blue eyes met Enjolras’s briefly. One side of the dark-haired man’s mouth lifted, and without meaning to, the blond man smiled back.

“So,” said Gavroche, “you guys want to show me how to identify modulations in a minor key?”

Grantaire sat down at the piano and started playing minor chord progressions, explaining the cadences. Enjolras rested his elbows on top of the piano, looking down at the long fingers on the black and white keys and occasionally clarifying Grantaire’s explanations of the theory.

Perhaps there was more to Grantaire than Enjolras had first thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not updating after that horrible previous chapter. But look, I finally managed more than two sections in a chapter, and it's not barely two thousand words long. Whoo right
> 
> I actually had something planned that was supposed to be in this chapter, but it’s going to go in the next now. I’ve a fair few plot points I’d like to develop before the end of “First Movement.” ;)
> 
> Also, because I haven’t made this very clear, this fic is supposed to be September. “Second Movement” will be October, “Third Movement” will be November, and “Finale” is going to happen in December.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which several people sort things out.

Feuilly jerked awake when two hard things hit him in the chest. Blinking to clear his vision, he glared blearily at the image of the culprit, which sharpened into Bahorel rummaging through the fridge.

“Dude,” Feuilly snapped, sitting up on the couch to find a pair of his better drumsticks rolling off his chest, “stop throwing my drumsticks. Things cost money, you know.”

“Like they’re going to break on your skinny-ass chest,” Bahorel shot back, emerging with a bottle of Feuilly’s soda.

“You’re the one who keeps stealing my food,” said Feuilly, raising an eyebrow.

Stuffing his music folder carelessly in his backpack, his roommate answered offhandedly, “But you love me anyway.”

Feuilly swallowed uncomfortably.

Bahorel raised his head after forcing the zipper closed (and ripping a hole in the fabric by accident) to find the redheaded percussionist still sitting on the couch. “Yo, Feuilly. We have to go.”

He blinked. “Right.” He grabbed the already packed backpack with all his mallets and music and swung it onto his back.

They exited the apartment building and started the walk toward the music building. Feuilly yawned. There was a poster at a bus stop featuring some guy in space armor against a sci-fi background, and Bahorel shouted “ _Ender’s Game!_ ” so loudly that everyone in a twenty-foot radius jumped and glared at them. However, it had no effect on Feuilly, who was too used to both the noise – he _was_ a percussion player – the bellows that would rival that of a Harry Potter giant, and the staring.

They turned a corner. Bahorel’s case banged against Feuilly’s shin, and he kicked him back. Deliberately hitting him again, Bahorel asked, ‘So how’s your jazz thing going?”

Feuilly was a drummer for a jazz band called Patron-Minette. It consisted of Montparnasse, who played guitar, Babet, sax, Gueulemer, bass, and Claquesous, keyboard. None of them were in college – actually only two looked anywhere near college-age – but they hung around the campus dealing in various shady activities. Feuilly was careful to avoid them then, but they were pretty damn good players in their practices. Occasionally Courfeyrac joined them with his trumpet.

“Pretty good,” Feuilly answered Bahorel. “We’re playing Gersh –”

“Shut up,” said Bahorel suddenly, stopping dead and flinging a muscular arm out. Feuilly slammed into it.

“Man –” he started, but Bahorel waved his hand for him to be quiet.

“Bahorel, what?”

“Look,” the trombone player breathed, concentrating on something on the other side of the street.

Feuilly followed his gaze to the backs of two familiar-looking figures, a tall guy and a smaller girl.  They both carried instrument cases. They appeared to be walking and keeping their distance, but the free hands between them brushed and they retracted it at the same time. Feuilly squinted. Damn his nearsightedness, astigmatism, and financial situation.

_Oh._

It was Éponine and Combeferre.

Bahorel clapped his very large hands to his cheeks without letting go of his instrument. “Aww…” he whispered, “this is the cutest thing!”

(The first time Feuilly had seen Bahorel’s reaction to what he deemed a “cute couple,” he had been rather taken aback. But it was their second year of being roommates, and he was pretty sure he’d seen all of Bahorel now.)

“Oh my God. I’m going to take a picture.” His phone was already whipped out and in the camera app. He poked the screen several times, rocking in excitement.

Feuilly admitted to himself that they were adorable. Not that he would ever tell Bahorel that he had “succumbed to the crazy real-life-ship fangirl community,” as he said once. Out loud, he protested on behalf of their privacy (and their developing relationship). “Man, you’re kind of intruding. You don’t even know if they’re actually dating.”

“I know they’re not. That’s why.”

“Dude, it’s their personal lives. Stop – Who are you even sending it to?” Bahorel had switched to SnapChat and was selecting several recipients for the picture.

“Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta,” he answered. “Do you even know how long we’ve been shipping them?”

Feuilly did not want to know. Instead, he grabbed Bahorel’s ear, pinching a little too hard on the top stud earring and tugging him away. With a yelp and a curse, Bahorel stumbled toward him. Feuilly charged on and dragged him into an alley.

“Damn it, Feuilly, let go, I pierced that like a month ago,” hissed Bahorel, and the redhead let him go but kept a hand near the earring, just in case he decided to sprint back and take more pictures.

“Look. I’m sure they’ll have some great epiphany at one point and fall in love with each other dramatically or some shit like that. Whatever. Just leave them alone right now, okay?”

(Because Feuilly wanted it to happen as much as the rest of them did.)

Bahorel stared at him hard. “Feuilly,” he said cautiously, “I may be completely wrong, but you don’t happen to like one of them, do you?”

All of a sudden, Feuilly felt very uncomfortable. “No, I don’t.”

“Doesn’t look like it. Your face is red,” Bahorel pointed out literally.

“I’m just sweating. Shut up.”

“Okay, okay.” Bahorel backed away with his unoccupied hand in a mock defensive position. “I totally and completely believe that you don’t secretly have a massive crush on one of them and promise not to try to set you up with one or both of them.”

“You do want to see Éponine and Combeferre end up together, though, don’t you?” asked Feuilly dryly.

“Oh no!” Bahorel boomed, sinking to his knees at the entrance of the alley and lifting his arms to the sky. “Why?! This is a dilemma! I must consult Courfeyrac immediately!” Frozen in that position, he glanced up at Feuilly. “Although, in hindsight, I do ship them better than you with either or both of them. No offense or anything, obviously.” Without another word, he grabbed his case and rushed off toward the music building. With a frustrated sigh, Feuilly started walking after him, keeping his eyes on his hulking figure.

_I don’t like them. I’m in love with someone else, moron. And you know damn well who that is._

 

* * *

 

To say that Marius was nervous, again, was quite possibly the understatement of the millennium.

Having gone back to his computer after that first orchestra rehearsal day and Facebook-stalked her for two hours, Marius had noticed that she had added just added several friends, friends whose names he recognized from orchestra. He stared at the screen for eight and a half minutes with his cursor hovering over the “add friend” button, and ended up clicking it by accident when his roommate opened the door and he jumped and hit the mouse. To his relief and also increasing panic, Cosette had confirmed it in a matter of minutes, indicating that she remembered who he was! (They had talked at the café after orchestra, yes, but Cosette seemed like the type to talk to everyone, and in any case, Cosette Fauchelevent knew his name!)

Several times in the next three weeks, Marius had stared at the open chat window and waited patiently for her green dot to pop up at around nine o’clock every night. Every single time, he would then click her name to talk to her privately. But not once did he type anything into that white bar, and not once did Cosette talk to him, either.

But he had a sense of foreboding. If he did not at least try to talk to Cosette and ask her out, she would be asked out by somebody else. Courfeyrac and Jehan had not really done anything about it, only flashing him smiles and gigantic, overemphasized winks whenever they saw Cosette. Marius assumed that that was all they would do to aid him in this process.

(He was wrong, but that would come later.)

So now he stood outside the locked rehearsal room with two viola players he didn’t know, with his back straight, shoulders back, hips squared, knees not locked, and feet shoulder-width apart. It was his grandfather’s doing that whenever he was anxious, he snapped into this rigid soldier-like position. He couldn’t exactly say that it did him bad, at least not while playing.

There were voices coming from the direction of the stairs. Voices. A masculine one and…

Hers. Cosette’s.                              

Marius froze. Not that he wasn’t already mostly frozen.

Oh my goodness. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh oh mygosh ohmygosh ohmygosh ohmy–

“Hello, Rachel, Dianna, Marius,” said Valjean, nodding around. He fished out his keys.

“Hi, Marius,” Cosette said, smiling and waving a little. “Hey, Rachel, hey, Dianna.”

Marius stuttered out a panicked “hi” and followed the violas into the room. Cosette said his name first!

“Marius, how are you?” she asked brightly as she sat down in the chair next to him instead of two over.

“I’m, um, I- I- I’m fine how are you,” he stammered, feeling blood rushing into his cheeks.

“I’m great!” Cosette beamed. Her blue eyes grew brighter, and her face was radiant.

In the middle of taking a stuttering breath, he choked and made an un-gosh-ly squeaky noise. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, ducking his head down.

She did not appear to have noticed. “So, you’re a freshman, too, right? What classes are you taking?”

Shakily, he listed his classes. Funnily, as he talked, his hands stopped trembling and his heart rate slowed. He supposed that he had his grandfather to thank, again, as he was the one who had forced Marius into speech and debate in high school.

“That’s awesome. Oh, but we don’t any classes together,” said Cosette.

Marius nodded slowly. How did she know? Did she check to make sure that he wasn’t in her classes? It was probably her keeping track of her orchestra friends.

Were they friends?

“What’s your major, Marius?”

“Law,” he said. He really, really liked the way she said his name… “What’s yours?”

“Social work.”

“Why?” he blurted out and promptly flushed. “I mean— I didn’t mean it like— I mean it’s a good major, but um—”

She shrugged, twisting up one side of her mouth. “I was a foster child, and I saw firsthand how bad some things were. I just want to help… I don’t really know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Marius. “That you had to go through all that.”

Cosette waved it away, her smile coming back. “No, it’s totally fine now.”

“Oh. Okay. I- I’m glad to hear that.”

“Why did you choose law?” Cosette asked back.

As they talked, people had been entering the room. Marius prayed for the second oboe not to come to keep Cosette sitting next to him.

“—because my grandfather said m– argh!” He jerked violently when he felt something grab both his shoulders. Cosette looked at something behind him and burst into giggles.

Her giggles were bubbly and light and she must be an angel—

“So Marius!” yelled Courfeyrac right next to his ear, and he jumped again. “Who’s this?” He swung down on Marius’s other side.

“I’m Cosette,” she says, leaning across Marius to shake Courfeyrac’s hand. Her elbow brushed his chest.

She touched him!

“Awesome to meet you. Courfeyrac. And this is Jehan.”

“I know who Cosette is,” said Jehan. “Woodwinds!” Cosette gave a whoop and they high-fived over Marius’s head.

“Marius, don’t let me and Jehan interrupt you. Carry on with your conversation,” Courfeyrac said innocently, although he remained sitting on the chair with his hands braced on his knees, leaning forward.

Marius and Cosette looked at each other. “Um…” he said.

Jehan said something in Courfeyrac’s ear and tugged on his hand. The trumpet player sighed. “Fine. I’ll leave you guys alone.” And as he passed behind Marius again, he whispered, “Ask her out. Right now, Pontmercy.”

“What did he say to you? Your face is red,” Cosette observed, amused.

“Oh! Um. N- Nothing, everything’s good, yeah. I mean, yeah.”

Cosette tilted her head.

Marius thought that he might die.

What was that stupid thing that people were saying? The thing that started with “y” and meant “carpe diem”? YODO, wasn’t it? YOLO? That was it.

“No, actually, um, Courfeyrac said that, um, that, well.” He examined the floor with great interest. “Um, I just think that— um, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever encountered in my life and you’re really smart and cute and talented so will you go out with me? I mean I totally understand if you don’t want to because I mean I’m really stupid and bad at clarinet but—”

He faltered when Cosette pressed her hand down on top of his. “Yes. Yes,” she said, “I’ll go out with you.”

Marius spluttered.

Cosette frowned, looking perfect in the process. “Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to go out with you?”

“Yes,” he choked out.

“What’s wrong then?”

“You said yes, and you’re—you’re wonderful and gorgeous and incredible and amazing and I’m not—”

“But you are,” she said, weaving her fingers through his. “Well, at least I think you are.  Right now, you’re really cute, very nice, and very good at the clarinet. And I do really want to go out with you.”

Marius felt dizzy.

“So give me your phone,” said Cosette.

Marius almost dropped his phone three times, fumbling to extricate it from his suddenly far-too-complicated inside jacket pocket. His fingers slipped off the screen twice when he attempted to type the password on it, and he shakily handed it to Cosette. She took it, her fingers lingering over his.

He watched her, mesmerized, as she put her phone number in his contacts and texted her own phone from it. Her hands were pale and soft, her fingers long and graceful, and her clear-coat nails neatly cut short for her oboe.

Cosette passed him his phone back just as Enjolras began walking around the room, calling for people to sit down and get ready. The second oboe arrived and hesitated, seeing Cosette so comfortably on her chair. Cosette looked up, apologized and smiled, and pressed Marius’s hand one more time before moving away. A few moments later, his phone buzzed in his hand.

Perhaps Marius was the type to get very nervous. Perhaps his grandfather, at one point, had cowed the optimism and hope out of him. But he felt himself beginning to get hopeful again. This was going to work, Cosette and him.

 

* * *

 

Valjean watched their exchange from the front of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

While Cosette and Marius lived out the beginning of their sure-to-be love story, Joly and Bossuet were having a…talk of sorts.

It started at the Musain, where Joly and Bossuet were waiting between class and orchestra. Bossuet was coming back from the bathroom when someone beside him sneezed. As the sun illuminated the dust in the air, Joly could literally see the droplets of mucus and God-knows-what-else land on his scarf.

When Bossuet returned to their table, Joly leapt up, trying to hold out a stack of napkins while shrinking away from him. “Oh God, take off your scarf right now, oh my God, do you even know how many germs there are, you could be sick already, God, take it off, what if that girl had AIDS—”

Nonplussed, Bossuet took off the scarf using the proffered napkins, blinking. “Just _what_ are you talking about?”

“That girl _sneezed_ on you!” Joly almost screeched, rifling through his bag for his three sanitizers. He found a non-alcoholic one and squeezed a glob of his frantically on a napkin, dabbing at the scarf.

“Joly, it’s fine—”

“It is not fine. You could get sick.” Joly found his sanitizer spray and spritzed it three times over the scarf. “You could die!”

Bossuet managed to calm him down after seven minutes, and they went on marking in music notes, accidentals, and fingerings. (They both had solo parts.) When they finished, Joly stood up to leave. To his horror, Bossuet began winding the scarf around his neck.

“Ew ew ew what are you doing?” Joly snatched Bossuet’s arms away. “You have to wash it! There’s only so much hand sanitizer can do. Oh God, there must still be so many germs on it—”

“I have to wear this,” Bossuet said, although he didn’t start putting it on again.

“Why? It’s so dirty and you can get sick…”

Strangely, Bossuet turned pink. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Well, we’re going to orchestra, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but the room is hardly cold and there isn’t a window, so I don’t see why you need a scarf.”

“No, I meant… Well, let’s just say that somebody told me that they thought it looked nice. On me.”

Joly lifted his eyebrows. “What? Who?”

“Well, not to sound like a seventh-grader, but, er, my crush.”

Joly felt a flash of panic as he remembered something. “Who might that be?”

Bossuet grinned abashedly. “Musichetta.”

Something squeezed in Joly’s chest. “Musichetta?”

“Yeah. The viola, you know? I should probably have told you earlier, but, yeah, Musichetta. And—again I don’t want to sound like a seventh-grader—but I think she likes me. Back.”

“Really? Do you think so?” Joly stammered, his heart beginning to pound.

“I do. Why?” Bossuet looked like he was concerned, and Joly almost stumbled away.

“Nothing, nothing. Um, I just remembered that I have to get something, um, from the library. You don’t have to come with me. I’ll see you in orchestra! And, um, if you have to, put on the scarf. I guess.” Joly staggered outside, feeling almost dizzy.

It had been quite a while—their high school JV cross-country team in sophomore year, in fact—since Joly and Bossuet had been in direct competition. Joly was a bassoon, a lower woodwind; Bossuet was a French horn, a high brass. Joly was a pre-med student; Bossuet was a law major. Joly was ever-so-careful; Bossuet was much less so.

Joly liked Musichetta. Bossuet liked Musichetta.

So what was he going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAHHH I'M SO SO SO SORRY
> 
> Long story short, life got in the way. I took and passed ABRSM Grade 8 piano (sorry, sorry, I was drawing from my own life to write Gavroche's scene a couple chapters back). I started and gave up halfway through Nanowrimo. Winter concerts and finals came and went. And now I'm swamped with tech rehearsal and performances for my school's musical. (Four hours every day for nine days!)
> 
> The Feuilly and Bahorel part and the first part of the Marius and Cosette thing were written at about the time I last published a chapter. I wrote the rest a few days ago, so I'm sorry if the voices/narratives don't line up. I'm also aware of a few inconsistencies, and I'm working on fixing those.
> 
> If you're reading this because you read some of it way back in October, I truly, truly thank you. Ah...what's the expression?
> 
> I've got hot pants for you.
> 
> (Guess the reference and you win my eternal admiration.)


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